


Of All the Stars

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (But mainly because of his injury), Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Dance/Theater Critic Aziraphale, Dancer Crowley, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink, Romance, Slice of Life, Smut, Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25630075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: Anthony Crowley knows that his career at the Morningstar Ballet Company is hanging by a thread. But when he and famed theatre & dance critic Ezra Fell cross paths during a critical moment in his life, Crowley starts to wonder if his possible fall from grace might not be such a bad thing. Especially if Ezra is there to catch him.Complete.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 189
Kudos: 424





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh shit here we go! 
> 
> I’m so exited about this new fic. I really hope you all enjoy it! I’ll be posting a new chapter every day this week until it’s finished. 
> 
> General story warning: Crowley is emotionally manipulated/abused by his boss (Michael) and struggles with that throughout the story.
> 
> Alright, let’s get to it! Enjoy!

* * *

  
**Part I**

Anthony J. Crowley’s hands tremble as he makes his morning coffee. The ritual he’s followed for over twenty years suddenly feels foreign, as if he’s woken up in some alternate reality where everything is just the slightest bit off. Not enough to really make a difference, but enough to make him feel unbalanced. His stomach twists, and while he’s used to these kinds of nerves before a show, he’s not used to feeling them outside the wings of the theatre. It’s unsettling. Unusual. He doesn’t like it. 

His hands continue to shake as he slices an apple, and he feels his lungs constrict behind his ribs as he grabs his toast with peanut butter, balancing it all in long, wiry hands as he moves to his small kitchenette table where his laptop sits, having cruelly decided that _now_ is the perfect time to perform a system update. 

Crowley growls in frustration and lifts a slice of apple to his lips. He has no appetite; it doesn’t matter. He needs to eat, if he’s going to survive class today. And rehearsals. Which, depending on what he reads in the next few minutes, may be one of his last. 

His knee takes that as the perfect opportunity to twinge in pain, and Crowley drops the apple slice onto the table from the shock of it. “Fuck,” he grumbles. It may not matter what’s said about him. His leg may decide to seal his fate for him. It’s certainly been trying, these past two years. 

The twinge fades, and Crowley returns his focus to the computer screen that is still a bright, ghastly blue, the ppercentage stuck on sixty-eight percent. Can’t even give him the satisfaction of smirking at a crude number. Figures. 

He picks up the apple slice again, glaring at it as if somehow his current state of anxiety and dread lay with it, and takes a bite. It’s crisp and just tart enough- perfect. He finishes that slice, and already feels a little better for it. Reaching out, he grabs his coffee and sips it, watching as the computer crawls agonizingly slowly toward one-hundred percent. Just as Crowley is about to give up and go pull up the article on his phone, the computer flashes off, then pops back up, clearly finished with its update, and waits for him to enter in his password. 

He has to do it twice- damned nerves- and then he’s opening up the internet browser and typing in the name _London Observer_ in the address bar. With the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times before, Crowley moves the cursor to the arts section and clicks. His heart decides to mimic what it must feel like to skydive, and drops to his stomach, causing a sharp exhale to force its way out of Crowley. 

There, in black and white, is his fate.   
  


**“‘Sins’ Shines Light on the Virtues of Dance”**

_By: Ezra Fell_

_When one takes a seat for a ballet called ‘The Seven Sins’ one might assume the show will be full of dark and dreary costuming, heavy, thumping, and droning music, dim, ominous lighting, and choreography that is intentionally made ugly to demonstrate to the typical layman that sin equals bad. In pieces, those elements might be acceptable, but all at once it would be far too on-the-nose- the result of a director who lacks any nuance or ability to speak the language of subtlety._

_Mercifully, ‘Sins’ defies expectation, and while there are moments of droning music, and intentionally ugly choreography, it is scarce. ‘Sins’, in fact, does so much more than what one might assume. Each of the seven pieces gives a passionate, compassionate, and nuanced look at each of the biblical sins: greed, envy, wrath, sloth, gluttony, pride, and lust._

_From the moment the music begins- the soft, tinkling piano symbolizing the innocence that we quickly become aware is about to be lost, ‘Sins’ is a compelling tale of seven characters who each struggle with their respective sin, but that isn’t the whole of it. Each character is made human- real and visceral and full of life, and the pain one feels when they succumb is only made that more poignant by the glimpses of triumph that shimmer just beneath the surface of their eternal struggle._

_One might expect a dance about wrath to be loud and thrashing, with wild choreography. But instead the piece is rife with quiet moments that balance the imminent burst of anger. The piece isn’t about the moment of rage itself, but of the tension that leads up to such a devastating moment, and then the shattered remains such an outburst can leave behind. Likewise, envy focuses on the longing for something more, and how a genuine desire for something can be twisted into an ugly thing that consumes and destroys._

_Each dancer performs their piece with a deep understanding of their subject, moving with such fluidity, even in moments of grotesque failure as their character fails to rise above the temptation they face. I could write seven reviews, and it would still not be enough to properly convey just how intricate and well-thought-through each segment is. But while each dancer certainly deserves an entire piece to praise them for their job well done, I find I must focus on one piece in particular. It may seem unfair to come across so biased, especially when all seven pieces are spectacular and thought provoking- proving that one need not have the flowing words of Shakespeare to express the vastness of the human condition, I fear that I_ must _focus on one act in particular: lust._

 _Lust is the final act in the program, and it’s one of those times when the tired old adage of ‘saving the best for last’ becomes not only appropriate to use, but it is_ necessary. 

_Lust, performed by the otherworldly Anthony J. Crowley, is a masterpiece of sensuality, vulnerability, and a testament to how agile and incredible the human body can be. Crowley, who many familiar with the world of dance may know, suffered a terrible injury over two years ago. And while this is not his first performance since his return from that injury, it is certainly the one that should put to rest any doubt of whether or not his star has dimmed. It has not. In fact, he shines brighter now than ever before. His technique is still quite pristine, and while some more negative and critical eyes may point to ever-so-slight lapses in certain areas- I say that the adjustments he has made to compensate with his injury only make his performance that much more beautiful. Technique can be learned; technique can be lost, over time. But the passion that one sees pouring out of him during every move- be it a sweeping series of leaps and turns across the stage, to the slightest flick of his hips or shifting of weight- is undeniable._

_While I would recommend Sins_ regardless _of Anthony Crowley’s incredible performance, it is truly he who makes the show worth seeing._

_The ballet may be a deep exploration of the seven sins, but it does so much more than that: it shines a light on the virtues of dance, and leaves this critic desperately awaiting the day when the Morningstar Ballet Company of London will give Anthony Crowley his due, and make him the star he so clearly is._  
  


It’s only when Crowley feels a burning in his chest that he remembers to breathe, and with that sharp inhale comes the even sharper realization of what’s just happened: he’s saved. 

A sob escapes Crowley, and his hands fly up to his face, where his fingertips catch tears that have started to fall against his will. He can’t help it. This review was going to be what made him or broke him, and Crowley is sitting in a strange sort of reality where not only was the show named a success by the most well-respected and beloved critic in London, but said critic specifically praised _him._

“Oh, Christ,” Crowely breathes as he takes a shaky breath, laughing as the nerves that have sat heavily in his stomach for hours seem to untwist themselves from around his internal organs, and he feels a rush of blood to his head, and the sharp, jittery shiver of _relief_. “Oh, shit,” he breathes to himself, running his hands through his hair, scooping it all up into a bun on top of his head before letting it fall back down around his shoulders in a tangled mess. “Oh, fuck!” 

He stands, body practically vibrating with nervous energy, and he laughs before bending over, flexible body allowing him to press his forehead to his knees. It stretches his back as much anything else, and then he stands upright, turning to look at the computer as if he fully expects the words in the article to shift and the letters to spell out something akin to: _just kidding, Crowley sucks._

It doesn’t change. 

He’s just received the greatest review he could possibly get, from the most influential reviewer who could possibly give it. 

_“Oh my God!”_

Across the room, Crowley’s phone rings. The series of cheerful little beeps doesn’t tell him who’s calling, but he doesn’t need to guess at who is calling him at this hour, the morning such an important review is released for the world to read. 

Crowley moves to grab his phone and answers it, putting it on speaker. Before he can even give his usual sarcastic greeting, a harsh voice shouts at him: “You _mother fucking piece of shit!”_

“You read it?” Crowley asks, giddy and full of disbelief. 

“You mean that fucking disgusting love letter?” They snarl, “Yeah, I fucking read it!” 

“He praised the _show,_ Bea _,”_ Crowley stresses, “I mean. He liked it all.”

“Yeah,” Bea replies harshly, “But he singled you out, Crowley. In all my years dancing, I’ve never known him to _single out_ a performer. He always gives a brief mention to everyone. But this? This was all about _you.”_

“I didn’t _ask him_ to write it,” Crowley huffs, moving back to the table. If he hadn’t been hungry before because of nerves, he’s less hungry now because of the elation and _release_ of those nerves. Still, he takes a bite of toast- his first bite of food post-redemption, and a pitiful bite at that- and chews heavily, trying to force himself to have an appetite he just can’t seem to muster. “I don’t even know him.” 

He might not know him, but he certainly knows _of_ him. Ezra Fell is the one dance critic Crowley has ever really given any credence to, because Ezra Fell is the one critic Crowley feels actually _sees_ him. Not just as a dancer with a mastery of the technical, but as an artist whose heart and soul encompasses each and every role he dances. Ezra was the first to make Crowley believe that he was worth something; especially after his injury. He doesn’t know him personally, but Crowley doesn’t care. He respects him- _everyone_ respects the man- but for Crowley, it’s more than just professional. It’s personal. He admires the man. Probably more than he honestly should. 

“I know that,” Bea huffs, then sighs, all that venom seeming to leave them. They’ve always been quick to anger, but just as quick to reign it in. “Maybe I should’ve danced _Envy_.” 

Crowley smirks at the self-deprecating joke. “You were wonderful. He said all the pieces were wonderful.” 

“But he loved you,” they counter softly, “You know what this means, right?” 

Unable to help himself, Crowley grins. “The thought has occurred.” 

“She can’t let your contract expire now. Not when you just got the unabashed praise of the one person she might actually listen to. She lets you go and Fell finds out? He’d probably be able to ruin the company single handedly, what with his sphere of influence.” 

Crowley nods, “Again. The thought has crossed my mind.” 

Bea begins to speak again, but Crowley’s phone begins to buzz in his hand. He looks down and sees _Michael St. Claire_ on the screen. Gulping, he interrupts Bea. “I’m being summoned,” he says ominously, feeling it more sincerely than normal. 

“Go,” Bea says, “And tell me fucking _everything.”_

With that, she hangs up, and Crowley answers with a surprisingly confident, “Good morning, Ms. St. Claire.” 

“Let’s meet before class. Eight fifteen sharp. My office.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Crowley replies, glancing at the clock. It’s already half past seven and Crowley resists the urge to curse. 

Michael hangs up. 

Crowely drops the phone onto the table, which he immediately follows by resting his head against it. After a moment, he looks up, staring at the almost literally _glowing_ review of his performance. 

Grabbing his toast, Crowley forces it down his throat in a few too-large bites, and quickly finds the newspaper’s phone number. He types it into his Notes app, then shuts the computer and rushes to his bedroom to get ready for the day. 

It feels like the first day of the rest of his life. 

—

Crowley enters the office of Michael St. Claire, director of Morningstar Ballet Company of London with the same trepidation that a cat might paw at an unfamiliar surface to judge its stability before carefully stepping onto it. It’s not the first time he’s been in this office, stark white and sparse decor making it feel more like an interrogation room than an office. He’s never felt comfortable here; the fluorescent lighting is near-blinding- which is why he always wears his sunglasses when he’s forced to come here. But even with his tinted lenses, the bright white that glares off the walls seems to only exaggerate the feeling of vast emptiness. One wall contains a trophy case stuffed full of awards, but it’s the only real sign of personality the room has. Behind the desk is a portrait of the founder of the company- Lucy Ferris Morningstar, a prolific ballerina who left the Royal Ballet to start her own company. Crowley- and several others- had followed. 

He has days where he regrets that decision. Regrets that he let Lucy sweet talk him into the concept of a more modern company that challenged the status quo. Regrets hanging on her every word and following her in her mutiny against the first place that had ever felt like home. Regrets not leaving when Michael took over after Lucy’s sudden and untimely death. But this place was all he had. Especially now. With a high-profile injury that still has lingering complications, Crowley knows he’s on thin ice. He can’t afford to linger on regrets. 

Crowley drops his bag by the door, and waits with the kind of terrified uncertainty of a child who knows they’re about to be chastised by a dominating parent. 

“Crowley,” Michael says without even looking up from where she’s typing on her computer, “Sit.” 

The command startles him to action and Crowley crosses the room far more stiffly than he typically walks- (‘like a fucking snake decided to learn belly dancing,’ Bea had once described him)- and takes a seat in the single grey armchair across from her. Michael types away, ignoring him with the kind of dedication that makes Crowley wonder if she has genuinely forgotten his existence. After a few more moments, she turns to him with terrifying abruptness, dark hair pulled back in a severely tight bun that makes her face look rounder than it really is, and much harsher, especially under such unflattering light. Her eyes narrow as she stares at his sunglasses, but it’s clear she has other battles today, and so she makes no comment, instead getting right to the heart of the matter. 

“You must be pleased,” she says as she gently lays her arms on the desk, leaning forward as if to study his reaction. Crowley tries to remain as neutral as possible. 

“I am grateful my hard work has paid off,” he says diplomatically, swallowing down his typical sarcastic remark with the same distaste he’d eaten his breakfast. 

Michael stares at him for a long, hard moment, before making a small harumph and leaning back in her chair. She lifts her nails to look at them, as if the barely noticeable pink of her polish is more interesting to her than the dancer across from her. 

“That was _quite_ the review,” she says simply, looking up. It’s only then that Crowley notices a physical copy of the _London Observer_ is on her desk, flipped to the arts section. “It seems Mr. Fell was very keen on your performance.” 

“Well, Dagon’s choreography really speaks for itself; I merely-“ 

Michael’s hand slams on the desk, a loud, resounding _smack_ that makes Crowley jump and clamp his mouth shut. Vaguely, he wonders if her hand stings, or if she is somehow immune to all feeling. 

“You can drop the act,” she says simply, a small sneer on her lips, “We’re not on stage.” She stands then, years of rigorous training evident by her perfect posture. “You know very well this performance was your last shot. If you did it well, without any mishaps-“ she glances with disdain down at his leg- “then we would _discuss_ your future at this company.” 

She rounds the desk and moves to stand directly in front of Crowley, leaning against the desk and looking down at him as if he were a fly in her soup. “However,” she says with a scowl, “It would seem that there need not be any discussion. And you know that, don’t you?” 

Crowley decides to own it. “I do.” 

Michael glares. “A review like that is something every dancer in this company would sell their soul for,” she informs him, as if he’s unaware of just how fucking lucky he is, “And from _him?”_ She scoffs and shakes her head. Crowley suddenly wonders if perhaps she’s jealous. “Well,” she turns away and moves back around to sit in her chair, where she levels him with a dry, no-nonsense look, “It would appear as if you have a guardian angel looking out for you. We’ll have your new contract ready later this week.” 

“Much obliged,” Crowley says simply, choosing not to poke the monster when it’s backing away and he has the exit just within reach. 

Michael scoffs at that, then turns her gaze to her computer. Crowley shifts, wondering if she’s dismissing him, or if he’s in for more insults. His question is answered almost immediately when Michael’s gaze snaps to him and she barks, “Out! You’ve class in five minutes. I don’t want this to go to your head and have you think you're better than everyone else. Because you’re _not._ It is a _privilege_ to be a part of this company, Anthony, and you should remember that I graciously allowed you to stay despite the-“ she glances down pointedly to his knee- “Considerable risk.” 

Crowley flies out of the seat and grabs his bag. He doesn’t argue with the assessment; he knows. He’s been told practically every day since Michael took over. She thinks he’s cocky, smug, a poor fit. But he’s popular with the audience. _For now,_ she likes to remind him. With his injury and the lingering issues that come with it, Crowley knows he’s only still here by the very grace of God. 

He tries not to let that go to his head either. 

Rushing out of her office, he races to the studio room so he can get in a quick warm up before class begins. The entire time, he can’t stop thinking about Fell’s words. Describing him like… like he isn’t just a tired old dancer hanging on by an ever-fraying thread. 

Ezra Fell wrote about him like… 

Like he was worth something. Like he _is_ worth something. 

—

Crowley munches on a protein bar during lunch, listening to Bea rant about the review next to him. Despite them both sitting with their back to the wall and with legs stretched out, their toes only come to the middle of his shins. He loves to mock them for being so short; they love to call him an old man who should trade his shoes for a walker. 

Coming from anyone else, that remark would hurt. 

“Gimme a bite,” Bea says as they take the bar from Crowley and nibble at the edge. They make a face. “Gross,” they gag as they swallow it down. “Too sweet. What is wrong with you?” 

“Well, they were out of vinegar and spite flavored protein bars so I was stuck with-“ he turns the bar to look at the wrapper- “Mixed berry and vanilla.” 

Bea gags again and takes a sip of their water bottle. Crowley laughs and looks at them with affection. Despite everything; despite the vitriol of Michael, despite his injury… they stayed. They were there when his ACL had ruptured; they were there when he’d come out of surgery. They were there when he sank into the depths of despair, and used their rough but dedicated form of tough love to drag him kicking and screaming back into the studio. 

He can afford to let them steal- and then judge- his choice in protein bar. 

They shove at him. “So tell me about the meeting.” 

Crowley shrugs. “Not much to say. Michael was pissed. But I’m safe. Contract is all but signed.” 

Bea nods. “Good.” 

Crowley nods, though there’s a small part of his stomach that twists a little too tight at the thought. He’s not sure why, and he chooses to ignore it. 

Instead he thinks back to the review. How amazingly kind it has been. How flattering. How sincere. He knows- they _all_ know- Ezra Fell doesn’t waste time on empty compliments or cheap platitudes. He will tear a show apart from beginning to end, but still encourage people to go see it because despite the problems, it might still resonate with someone. But there have been entire productions scraped and redone at the critical lashing of Ezra Fell, and made all the better for it. A glowing review is not exactly difficult to earn, so long as the performance is sincere- Fell hates pretension- and there has been obvious thought and care put into each individual aspect. Fell can tell the difference between a poorly executed but well intentioned piece and a polished but hollow cash-grab. And if he tells his audience to watch a show, well. The show is generally sold out for the rest of its run. The shows he suggests people skip usually close within a few weeks. 

And it’s with that understanding that Crowley genuinely can’t believe his luck. That in his most desperate hour of need- at the moment when he very well might have fallen out of grace and wound up an unemployed and unwanted former dancer… Fell had seen him. And thought him worth something. It’s not the first time, of course. They’ve both been in their respective careers for some time now, and Crowley has been on the receiving end of several of Fell reviews. Usually he’s lumped somewhere in the middle of a long list of Fell complimenting each and every dancer, but while Fell talks about grace and elegance and beautiful lines with others, he always seems to focus on Crowley’s passion. His expressions. His deep understanding of how the character he’s dancing as moves and exists in their world. His assessments have always made Crowley feel naked and vulnerable under his gaze, and something stirs inside him at the thought of Ezra Fell seeing him completely stripped bare. In every sense. 

“I think I might thank him,” Crowley says aloud, thoughtfully. “Maybe send some flowers. Or a fruit basket.” 

“Who?” Bea asks before understanding dawns a moment later, “What? _No!”_

“Why not?” Crowley challenges. 

Bea turns to face him, glowering. “Because what if someone takes that the wrong way and thinks you bribed him? It’d ruin your career, not to mention his!” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “A couple apples are gonna ruin a man’s career? Come on, Bea, everyone knows Fell is incorruptible. He has _outed_ directors who try to bribe him, for fuck’s sake! I just want to thank him for the kind words.” 

“You don’t thank your critics,” Bea huffs, and Crowley can tell by the furrow of their brow that they’re genuinely annoyed, “We keep a respectable distance. We have our job; they have theirs. We each let the other do it, and the world stays in balance.” 

Lifting his hands in surrender, Crowley sighs. “Okay, fine. No flowers, or fruit. Or singing telegrams. Or-“ 

“You’re annoying,” Bea huffs, swatting at him and standing up, stretching with all the grace they’re famous for. They aren’t the principal dancer for nothing.

“I’m going inside. Hurry up. I want to practice our _pas de deux_ before rehearsal. You nearly dropped me last time we did the press lift.” 

“I didn’t almost drop you,” Crowley retorts, “I think the problem is that you’re getting- ow!” 

He rubs his head where they threw their water bottle at him, then laughs when he tries to throw it back and it lands pitifully at their feet. “Getting weak, old man,” they respond before heading inside. 

“I threw it that way on purpose!” Crowley yells after her, then lets his head fall back against the rough brick wall. It’s cool out; the breeze feels lovely on his sweat-dampened skin, and he takes a long, slow inhale before he forces the air out his nose and pulls out his phone. 

The Notes app still has the number for the _London Observer_ staring up at him in glaring white letters. Crowley stares at the number for a minute, an internal debate twisting within him. Before it has the chance to morph into an all out war of logic and foolishness, Crowley closes the app and stands to head back inside. 

Bea’s right. Fell was just doing his job. And now Crowley needs to focus on doing his. 

—

The problem is, Crowley can’t stop thinking about Fell. 

The number in his phone taunts him as he tries to reason away why it _isn’t_ a big deal to call and simply say thank you. It’s polite, for one, though Crowley has never really cared about being polite or adhering to the niceties that the world throws at him during every single social interaction. 

So who cares if it’s polite. 

But the thing is, he _wants_ to. He wants to call and throw himself at Fell’s feet and thank him for seeing something in him that’s good. Seeing something that makes Crowley proud of his work. For seeing something and then telling the world about it: 

_Anthony Crowley is worthy._

He’s not felt worthy of his spot since the injury; he’d hardly felt worthy of it before then. But now it’s different. He knows he’s a ticking time bomb. He only has so much left in him before his body will betray him and he won’t be able to dance all day, every day. He knows that every day that passes is a minute closer to his own metaphorical midnight. A minute closer to utter oblivion. 

Surely Fell deserves to know he extended that countdown, just a little. 

But why would he _care?_ It’s his job to say such things, just as it’s Crowley’s to dance the piece he’s given. 

Crowley deletes the number and closes the notes app. 

It doesn’t matter. He has it memorized. 

—

Two days after the review came out that saved Crowley’s career, the dancer sits by himself on the roof of the Morningstar studio building, and cradles his phone in his hand like he’s holding a crown jewel. His stomach is in knots, and he hasn’t slept well the past two nights, and he can’t focus because every thought that isn’t him struggling to keep up with choreography is debating on why he shouldn’t simply call the _Observer_ and ask to speak to- 

“Ezra Fell, please.” 

The operator responds in that pleasant-but-fake customer service voice, “Of course; hold one moment, please.” 

There’s a click, then a moment of silence, then the merry jingle of some awful hold music. Crowley grips the phone to his face like a lifeline, and tries to breathe deeply and smoothly. This isn’t wrong. This is fine. It’s just to say thank you-

“Good morning, this is Ezra Fell speaking,” the delightfully kind and posh voice says on the other end. For a moment, Crowley is stricken. He’s seen photos of Fell- he’s handsome, of course- but Crowley can’t think of a time he’s ever heard the man speak. He’s read his words- every dancer in England reads every review that Fell releases, equally hoping that their friends get good reviews and their rivals are slashed to pieces. But even in his rebukes, Ezra is kind, and every criticism is followed with a constructive suggestion for improvement. The man is wonderful, Crowley thinks, a genuine angel, and now he can imagine that kind, lovely voice _saying_ those things to- 

“Hello?” 

Crowley starts, and very nearly drops his phone. _“Shit,”_ he mutters, then realizes that Fell probably heard that, and everything in him is screaming at him to hang up the phone, but like the fool he is, he rights the device and chokes out a, “Um, hi.”

_Oh, well done._

“Can I help you?” Fell says on the other end of the line, sounding curious and surprisingly, patient. 

“No, um. Yeah, yeah,” Crowley fumbles through a response, stops short, takes a breath, and then tries again. “My name is, uh, Anthony. Crowley.” 

A moment passes. Then, “Oh! Oh, well, hello, my dear. This is a pleasure! What can I do for you?” 

Crowley settles back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I um.. well. I wanted to call and say thank you, really. For the- uh… for what you said. About me- and the show, of course.” 

“Oh!” Fell says on the other line, sounding genuinely surprised. “Well, that’s very kind of you, but there’s no need to thank me, my dear. You did it all. It was _quite_ the stunning performance. Best I’ve ever seen you do.” 

“Seen a lot of me, have you?” Crowley remarks playfully, then instantly wishes he were dead because _what the fuck was that?!_

Thankfully, Fell doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t mind. “Quite a lot, over the years. Between you and me,” he says, and Crowley can hear some shuffling, as if he’s trying to turn away from prying ears, “I’ve never quite thought you were given your dues. You’re a remarkable dancer, and I was quite distraught when you were injured. Seeing you come back, and to perform such an illustrious and moving piece- well, I simply couldn’t bear to stay silent on the matter anymore. What good is having influence if you don’t use it?” 

Crowley swallows the lump in his throat, and tries to keep from whimpering. “Ngk,” he mutters instead, lacking any grace he might otherwise have, “Well,” Crowley grunts, “Than- thank you. It was… well, it was very flattering. And I really appreciate it.” 

“As I said,” Fell remarks, “The choreography was solid; and your piece was spectacular. The subject matter was interesting, as was the perspective given. It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, and you certainly deserve recognition for your stunning performance.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley squeaks, unsure of how to handle such unabashed praise being levied at him. Michael and the other heads of Morningstar seem oblivious to the concept of compliments, and so Crowley is so used to hearing scathing critiques that to hear someone genuinely think he did a job well done is a bit of a shock to the system. “Do you say that to every dancer who calls you?” He says in a teasing tone, then instantly jerks his head away from the phone as he realizes how utterly _stupid_ that sounds. He hears Fell speak and, as punishment, puts the phone back up to his ear to hear the man’s response to that ridiculous remark. 

“-est, my dear, you’re the first one to ever call me.” 

Crowley blinks, and suddenly feels even more embarrassed. “Oh,” he breathes. 

“I have gotten flowers a couple times,” Ezra remarks, “Chocolates, on occasion. Always _before_ my review came out, mind. Though it’s been years since I received any sort of preemptive token of appreciation. But you’re the first to ever call.” He makes a small sound, “Actually, allow me to amend that statement: you’re the first to call and _not_ chew me out over a poor review.”

“That happens?” Crowley gasps, though he supposes he shouldn’t be too terribly shocked. 

“I’ve been called a very interesting series of exceptionally crude words over the years,” Fell laughs, “Some I’ve had to _Google,_ and I really am astonished at the creativity that has gone into insults these days.” 

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” Crowley replies softly, “I read all your reviews- you’ve never been anything but fair and-“ he stops short, realizing what he just admitted to, and suddenly worries that Bea was right about not calling. “And if I’ve made you uncomfortable by calling-“ Crowley says, ready to apologize and then swear to never speak to him again; never _think_ of him again. 

“Oh, my dear fellow, not at all!” Ezra assures him with a kindness in his voice that makes Crowley shiver in a way he doesn’t want to dwell on. “This is actually… very sweet of you.” 

Crowley balks at being called _sweet,_ but chooses not to argue the fact. If Ezra Fell thinks he’s sweet, then he can be sweet. “Sure,” Crowley croaks, “It was _really_ well-written. I mean. Um-“ he stops before he makes even more of a fool of himself and instead says, “This is all off the record, right?” 

“Oh, my dear, _of course,”_ Fell says sympathetically, “I’m not some gossip columnist looking to make every interaction my next piece of drama. I’m a _critic._ This is strictly between us. And if I may, I meant what I said about Morningstar utilizing your talents more. You’re an incredible dancer, my dear. You deserve to shine as brightly as you did when I watched you the other night. Don’t let them hold you back, alright? You're worth far more than they give you credit for.” 

Crowley is silent for several moments before choking out a soft, “Thank you.” He moves one hand to wipe his face, smearing tears more than wiping them away. 

“Of course,” Fell says simply, then adds, a bit playfully, “Off the record, of course.” 

Crowley can’t help but laugh through his tears at that. “Off the record,” he agrees. 

They fall silent, and after a moment Fell clears his throat. “Well, I have a meeting I need to get to in ten minutes-“ 

“No, no, of course!” Crowley stutters, feeling like a fool for this whole endeavor. “Yeah, I have rehearsal in a sec, so…” 

“Well, it was very nice to finally speak to you,” Fell says, and Crowley feels another shiver go down his spine, tingling in the most delightful way. 

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes, “You too.” 

“Ta ta, my dear,” Fell says, and then hangs up. Crowley sits frozen for a moment, then, as if he’d been out-of-body for the whole encounter, he takes a breath, jerking in shock at what he’s just done, and lets the phone fall into his lap. Groaning, he buries his head in his hands. 

“That went down like a lead balloon,” he grumbles in devastation, feeling utterly humiliated that he actually called Ezra Fell to _thank him._ “Oh, Crowley you absolute twat,” he mutters to himself as he stands up, wobbling as blood begins to circulate through his legs again, leaving them feeling all pins-and-needles for a minute. His heart isn’t faring much better. _You’re the only one who has ever called because it’s a fucking_ idiotic _thing to do! That poor man just spent ten minutes indulging your sorry ass and now has probably marked you as some weirdo he never wants to encounter again. Well done!_

Feeling worse than when he’d first made the call, Crowley shuts off his phone and stalks back into the studio, determined to put the whole affair behind him. It was a mistake, nothing more. 

Crowley’s used to making those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s part one! 
> 
> Tomorrow we get a glimpse into what Ezra thinks about their conversation; and a chance meeting between dancer and critic will change everything.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the phone call; Crowley and Ezra have a chance meeting that will change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for the lovely comments! They seriously made my day. I’m so glad you’re enjoying the fic so far. I can’t wait for you to see what happens next!

* * *

**Part II**

With a strange sort of reverence, Ezra Fell places the receiver back onto the dock, and lets his hand linger for a long moment, as if maintaining contact with the device in question will somehow keep him connected to the man who just called him. 

It’s a ridiculous notion, and so Ezra jerks his hand away, bringing it to rest on his stomach next to his other hand where, by habit, they immediately begin the well-rehearsed dance of wringing together anxiously. The moment he notices he’s doing it, he jerks his hands away, and grips the edge of his desk. 

He can’t believe it. Anthony Crowley _called_ him. To _thank_ him. 

Glancing up, he looks across the sea of desks, many of which are empty for the moment, which allows him to easily see the curious look on his friend’s face. Her eyes look wider than normal behind her round-frame glasses, and she’s staring hard, as if she were a mind reader rather than an occultist. She tilts her head in a silent question, long waves of dark hair falling over her shoulder as they fall out of the makeshift bun she’d made with her pencil. Ezra responds with a slight tilt of his own head, huffing when she glares harder and picks up the phone. 

A moment later, his line rings. 

Lifting the receiver once more to his ear, Ezra answers daintily, “Ezra Fell speaking.” 

“Who was that?”

Ezra looks at his friend. “My dear Anathema, it was a business call. Why do you ask?” 

“Because business calls don’t make you smile like some kind of lovestruck idiot. I watched you. You’re _blushing.”_

“I am doing no such thing,” he says, glancing at his computer, where the screen has gone dark. He conspicuously tries to determine through the poor reflection if he is in fact blushing. He can’t tell, but his cheeks do feel warm. “It’s merely warm in here.” 

“It’s not.” 

“Says the woman wrapped in a sweater and a blanket, _and_ who has her heater going.” 

Anathema shuffles slightly and despite the general sounds filling the room- keyboards clacking, phones ringing- he swears he hears a _click._ Anathema rights herself and fixes a glare on Ezra. 

“Your reading said-“

“Yes, my dear girl, I know what my reading said,” Ezra sighs, “You’ve been giving me readings for _how many_ years now? Readings I have _never once_ actually asked for, mind.” 

“I’m looking out for you,” Anathema responds indignantly. 

“I know you are, my dear,” Ezra says affectionately, “But I have a meeting to get to, my dear girl, so I really must go.” 

Anathema lurches in her seat. “Ezra Fell don’t you hang up, don’t you hang-“

The line goes dead and she glares at him with the most fierce look of betrayal she can muster. Ezra gathers his things and simply shrugs at her, as if the situation were entirely out of his control. 

_Bastard,_ Anathema mouths to him. Ezra blows her a kiss, and leaves the bullpen to head to his meeting. 

—

It’s days like these that Ezra wonders why he chose to be a columnist in the first place. He loves his work, truly, but he doesn’t know how to make his boss understand that the arts are as important a part of the paper as the sports section. Ezra couldn’t care less which football team is going to nationals- if that’s even what it’s called- and he wishes with great fervency that his review wasn’t scheduled at the same time as the sports editor’s. He hates trying to make small talk with the man while also trying to convince Gabriel that his section is worthwhile. Never mind that he’s the most respected theatre critic in the country; unless there’s a ball being kicked about by men in hideous uniforms, Gabriel isn’t interested. 

Filled with irritation, as he is after _every_ review meeting, Ezra steps out of the conference room and very nearly slams into Anathema. Giving him no time to respond, she grabs his arm and drags him to the nearest private space, which happens to be the ladies’ restroom. 

“Really, my dear girl, you don’t have to be so rough,” Ezra replies as he lets her drag him inside. 

Anathema locks the door and rounds on him. “I give you a reading two days ago that suggests you’re going to have a breakthrough in your love life, and now you’re getting phone calls that make you grin like an idiot and you _won’t_ tell me who it is,” she declares, “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you? Spill!” 

Huffing, Ezra pulls a paper towel from the dispenser and wipes off the countertop. Once he’s certain it’s dry he tosses the towel and sets his belongings on the hideous grey and green marble and turns, mimicking Anathema’s pose where she’s leaning against the door. 

“You are far more invested in my love life than I have _ever_ been.” 

She squints. “So are you saying there’s something to be invested in?” 

It’s clear he isn’t going to be able to weasel his way out of this conversation. It’s bad enough that Anathema is so frustratingly intuitive, but she has no qualms about asserting that certainty until she has her suspicions confirmed. It’s not that Ezra doesn’t want to tell her, it’s just that he hasn’t had time to process his own response yet. And, he reminds himself forcefully, it’s not as if there is anything to actually tell. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing. 

Right? 

Clearing her throat, Anathema gives him a look that he knows is her way of saying _just get on with it._ Relenting, he groans and does just that. 

“Fine, you horrid girl,” he says with utmost affection. Anathema beams. “I received a phone call about my review of the new show _The Seven Sins.”_

The smug, knowing look on Anathema’s face falls. “That’s it? That’s what got you all ridiculous? You’re already aware you’re the best at your job, right? Or was this someone chewing you out? But that doesn’t add up, you gave it a glowing review.” She wrinkles her nose in confusion, “I know you've said before that the director is a bit of a hard-ass-“ 

“I have never called her that-“ 

“But you praised this one to high heavens, so I don’t understand-“ 

“Do you want to continue speculating or do you want to hear the rest of the story?” 

Anathema snaps her mouth shut and gestures for Ezra to continue. 

Ezra waits, pausing for dramatic effect, then, says: “It was Anthony Crowley.” 

He hates himself for it, but merely upon saying the dancer’s name, his mouth splits in a delighted, giddy smile. The kind that schoolgirls often wear when the boy they fancy has passed by, oblivious to their existence, but nevertheless the center of theirs. 

Anathema’s jaw drops. “No!” 

Ezra nods. “He called to _thank_ me, Ana.” 

Eyes lighting up in excitement, Anathema asks, “Did you ask him out?” 

“What? No!” Ezra recoils, though the way his heart somersaults in his chest is not from disgust at the idea. It’s quite the opposite, in fact, but Ezra tries not to dwell on that. “It was a professional call. He was _thanking_ me for the review. That’s all.” 

“Wait,” Anathema groans, pinching the bridge of her nose, “You’re telling me that _the guy_ you have been in love with for a million years _calls you_ and you just… did _nothing_ about it?!” 

“I’m not _in love_ with him,” Ezra huffs, knowing without looking that his cheeks are most definitely red, “I’m _smitten._ He’s a gorgeous dancer; but I don’t _know_ him. I can’t just ask him out.”

“You get to know him by asking him out!” Anathema exclaims, a bit shrill in her exasperation, “Ezra. I have known you for five years. And in all that time you have _never_ shown any romantic interest in anyone- _except_ for this dancer. And I know you think you need to keep your distance for some ridiculous reason-“ 

“It would be unprofessional,” Ezra mutters, the words falling on deaf ears. 

“But he just called you. To thank you. For that _ridiculously besotted sounding love letter_ you claim is a fucking _review!”_

“I was making a _point,”_ Ezra huffs, crossing his arms in defense of himself. “I know he’s only recently back from his injury, but their choice not to place him as the lead in their production of _Don Quixote_ was a crime!” 

_“You,”_ Anathema says softly, stepping forward until she’s right before Ezra, poking him lightly in the chest with a long, slender finger, “Have a _crush.”_

“I am forty-one,” Ezra remarks tersely, “I am far too old to have a _crush.”_

“Maybe,” Anathema shrugs, “But the fact remains that you _do._ And,” she stresses, moving her hand before Ezra can smack it away, “You had the opportunity to do something about it. Still do, possibly.” 

“Don’t you have a deadline you have to meet?” Ezra asks, exasperated and desperate for this conversation to be over. 

Rolling her eyes, Anathema moves to the door and unlocks it. “Think about it, Ezra,” she says as she opens it, “You might be just a conversation away from complete happiness.” 

She winks and slips out of the room. Turning, Ezra collects his belongings and stares into the mirror. Even if he _did_ reach out to Anthony Crowley… he can’t imagine someone as beautiful and sensual as him would ever want someone like Ezra. He’s long past the point of feeling self-conscious about his own appearance, but he also has eyes and an ounce of common sense. Someone like Anthony Crowley could have _anyone._ He’s not going to be interested in a nerdy, no-longer-athletic writer. 

The door opens again, and a blonde woman enters, starting slightly at seeing Ezra there. He turns and says, “Anathema,” by way of explanation. 

“Ah,” the woman replies in understanding, and moves to the stall without another word. Ezra steps out of the restroom. He grapples with whether or not to return to his desk, but he knows he’ll get nothing else done. Not with Anathema staring him down and certainly not with his thoughts all jumbled and conflicting as they are. With a sigh, he turns and leaves, stopping by the main secretary’s desk to let her know he’ll be out for the rest of the day and to text him any messages he may receive. 

_I cannot possibly reach out to him,_ Ezra tells himself firmly the entire way home, repeating the words like a mantra. _It’s best to just let it go._

}-{

By Sunday, Crowley has practically forgotten about the whole ordeal. Or at the very least, he doesn’t think about the phone call at every spare moment. The embarrassment has eased significantly, and in its place is a simple sort of resignation that he did something extremely stupid, and hopefully if (when) Ezra Fell ever reviews something of his again, he’ll be kind and fair and not let Crowley’s foolishness impact his opinion on the piece. But Ezra Fell is a professional. He’s known for being but fair and just. He wouldn’t give Crowley a bad review if the man didn’t deserve it. 

Though there’s a first time for everything, he reasons helplessly, not making himself feel any better. He dons his makeup and costume, pushes thoughts of Ezra Fell aside, and steps onto the stage to perform _Lust_ once more. Halfway through the performance, his thoughts wander back to the critic, and when he steps off stage sometime later, Bea remarks with wonder that it's the most passionate performance they’ve ever seen him do. 

Crowley tries not to dwell on what that means. 

It’s late when he leaves the theatre, about half past ten. He feels exhausted, yet somehow equally wired, and while he doesn’t know how to explain that contradictory phenomenon, he also knows he doesn’t want to go home just yet. He feels drained, but satisfied. His knee is sore, but it’s easily ignorable for the moment. Nothing a nice cup of tea won’t fix. And he’ll ice it and stretch it out when he gets home. For now, though, he finds himself listless, so he opts to leave his Bentley in the car park under the studio building in favor of walking. She’ll be fine there. 

Aimlessly, Crowley wanders a couple blocks away from the studio where his attention is caught by a charming little cafe on the corner. _The Wall,_ the sign reads, black _papyrus_ letters sitting over an ivory square, a small line of green ivy swirling underneath the words. 

He’s been here a couple times over the years, though he’s never paid the place much mind. It’s small, the few tables it holds all filled with students frantically finishing term papers and a couple clearly trying to make their date last as long as possible. Crowley steps up to the queue, staring at the “all day breakfast” menu, and thinks a cup of tea and some poached eggs will be just the thing for his restlessness. 

He places his order and then turns, noticing that the only table available is the one closest to the restroom. It’s conspicuously empty, and in fact it looks far newer than most of the tables in the cafe. Deciding that he can bear sitting at the reject table, he takes a step in that direction before, out of the corner of his eye, he notices someone approaching. 

“Anthony Crowley?” 

In the split-second moment before Crowley turns, he wonders if this is some doe-eyed dance student who has recognized him and wants his autograph. It’s scarce, but not unheard of, for some eager dancer who has watched bootlegs of his various performances over the years to seek him out, hoping for a word of advice or encouragement. He hardly knows what to tell them, except to _run far, far away from this life._

But then his brain catches up with reality, and Crowley sees that he is not staring down at some fresh-faced dancer. He’s looking at the handsome and familiar face of, “Ezra Fell?” 

Ezra grins, eyes bright and delighted. “Yes,” he says, then holds out his hand. Tentatively, Crowley takes it, heart short circuiting as he feels the soft warmth of the writer’s palm. 

“What a pleasure,” Ezra says, releasing Crowley's hand, then gesturing to his table, “I saw you come in but didn’t want to bother you until after you ordered. Would you like to sit with me? Only, there’s no other tables available and I don’t mind sharing.” 

Crowley glances back to see the table near the restroom is still empty, and as unappealing as it had looked before, now it seems even more distasteful. At least compared with the alternative. 

“Love to,” Crowley chokes out, and follows Ezra back to his corner table, where an old laptop sits. It’s ancient, if it’s size and style is any indicator, and as Ezra sits, he types out something quickly before closing the laptop and unplugging it from the outlet on the wall beside him. 

“I don’t want to intrude,” Crowley remarks weakly. Ezra pauses in his packing up to wave a hand dismissively. 

“Nonsense,” he says, “I just needed to get one last thought down.” He leans close, as if he’s about to share a secret. Compelled, Crowley leans in too. “Off the record,” Ezra says, as if it were some kind of inside joke between them, which Crowley supposes it is. And how odd! He has an inside joke with Ezra Fell. “But the piece I’m reviewing was _abysmal._ The director had no idea what she was doing, the poor dear. I hate to rip it apart, but one will never improve if things are sugar coated. Sometimes the truth must be a little hard to swallow, if only to inspire one to be better next time.” 

“You certainly inspire,” Crowley says simply, then instantly wishes the floor might swallow him up for saying something so ridiculous. 

Ezra doesn’t seem to mind. He leans back in his seat, a pleased look on his face. “I appreciate that,” he says, as if he were completely unaware of just how craved after his compliments are. “It certainly beats being called a _bastard_ for the hundredth time.” 

“You’re not a bastard,” Crowley protests. When Ezra gives him a dry, knowing look, Crowley sighs and amends weakly, “Okay. Maybe a _little_. Just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.” 

Watching Ezra _beam_ under that small compliment, wiggling his shoulders in delight, makes Crowley want to compliment him again. Tell him how handsome he is. How clever. How he is the angel who reached down and saved Crowley from utter damnation. 

“So,” Ezra carries on, “You’re wearing your _Sins_ makeup. How did the show go this evening?” 

Crowley admittedly forgot about the makeup. He rarely takes his makeup off at the studio. He prefers to do it at home, where he can blast the music he wants to listen to without other dancers complaining. It’s part of his ritual, and he feels a touch of embarrassment at sitting here now, across from Ezra Fell, while his face is painted up in such a ridiculous fashion. Resisting the urge to cover his face, he grips the table, wishing for something to occupy his hands, and shrugs. 

“It went well,” he says simply, not sure how much detail Ezra wants, or if he’s just making small talk. It’s bewildering, sitting across from the man as if they were old friends simply catching up. The phone call comes back to him, and he’s grateful his cheeks are already painted red, because it means that perhaps his blush will go unnoticed. “Positively sinful, I reckon.” 

Ezra laughs at that, a soft, almost-giggle that strikes Crowley in the heart and leaves him helpless to the other man’s charm. “That’s certainly one way to describe it,” Ezra remarks, then pauses as the barista brings Crowley’s tea and eggs to him. He thanks her, then adds one sugar to the tea and stirs. Ezra waits politely, then when Crowley is finished, continues, “I noticed you were favoring your left side during your piece. In past performances that hasn’t been quite the case. Is your leg causing you a great deal of trouble or was that a creative decision to prevent further strain?” 

Crowley balks at the astute assessment. Staring at Ezra with shock for a moment, Crowley tries to make the words in his head fall into an orderly line, then he speaks. “Um…. yeah. I specifically requested from Dagon- the choreographer- if I could focus on my left.” 

Ezra nods. “I’m pleased to know she was accommodating. I know that some choreographers get a bit tetchy when they have to adjust their vision. I’m glad that she was willing to ensure you could do your piece safely.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley says before taking a small bite of eggs. He swallows, then lays the fork down and sighs, “You’re one of the few to feel that way.” He blinks as the words spill out. He hadn’t meant to say that. What is it about this man that makes Crowley’s mouth disconnect from his brain and just say whatever stupid thing it can concoct first?

Tilting his head suspiciously, Ezra studies Crowley for a moment. The dancer tries to hold his gaze, but it’s so powerful, so beautiful, that he finds himself looking down at his eggs after just a couple seconds.

“Are they giving you a hard time about your knee?” 

Crowley shrugs and stabs at his eggs absently. “No. Not… not the other dancers.” 

“But St. Claire does,” Ezra says, and it’s not a question. Both are acutely aware of the woman’s reputation, and Crowley decides not to insult Ezra’s intelligence by denying it. And he'd rather not ruin the evening by going into the complicated relationship he has with his supervisor. Ezra doesn’t need that baggage lobbed at him. Not if Crowley doesn’t want to scare the man away. 

“She’s a bitch,” he says dismissively, “But I’m lucky to still be there. And Bea is a fantastic partner. Couldn’t ask for better.” 

Ezra looks at him for a few more moments, as if trying to determine whether or not he believes him. Finally he looks away and let’s the subject drop. “I haven’t ever seen you here.” 

“I don’t come often,” Crowley says, relieved that the subject has shifted to something a bit easier. Leave it to Ezra Fell to so accurately pinpoint an issue but be gracious enough not to press. Crowley has his job. That’s what matters. That’s _all_ that matters. “But I was feeling a little wound up after the show and wasn’t ready to go home yet.” 

“Well, I’m glad you chose this lovely establishment to patronize,” Ezra says sweetly, “I’m here most weeks, typing up outlines for my reviews.” 

Crowley takes a moment to look around. It’s a standard cafe, with exposed brick walls, one of which is painted black for a more modern look. Shelves hold box store pictures of Paris and New York, mugs with cutesy sayings, and other similar, unoriginal designs. Soft jazz plays over the speakers, and each table holds a small glass bowl with tea candles floating in water scented with a lavender oil. It's nothing impressive, but Crowley supposes that’s the point. It’s meant to be homey, and in order for it to feel that way for so many people, it has to be as generic as possible, to give off the vibe that anyone can relax here. 

“So this is where the magic happens,” Crowley remarks, “In a little cafe and on a complete _dinosaur_ of a machine.” 

“I’ll have you know this _dinosaur,”_ Ezra says the word as if it were a curse, “Has been the machine on which I’ve written every single review for the London Observer. We have history.” 

“I think that thing is older than history itself,” Crowely remarks playfully, finding himself growing more at ease with Ezra. The man doesn’t feel like a stranger, like some far-away entity that passes judgement. He’s just a man, and they’re sitting together in a dingy little cafe, where they’ve eased into a friendly acquaintance, and already Crowley finds himself utterly charmed as Ezra feigns indignance over his laptop. 

“It is a perfectly adequate machine,” Ezra argues. 

“Mmhmm,” Crowley says, resting his chin in his palm as he watches Ezra, “And how much longer does it take you to write a review _now_ than when you first dug up that fossil?” 

Ezra looks ready to argue, then stops and concedes the point with a silent sort of dignity that Crowley can’t help but admire. “At any rate,” Ezra clears his throat, trying to bite back a grin, “This is only where I type out my initial outline. I take notes during the performance, and then mull over my thoughts with some cocoa-“ he gestures to the half-empty, cold cup of cocoa next to him, “-then once I feel I have a solid grasp on the foundations of my critique, I go home, enjoy some wine, and write out a more comprehensive review.” 

“Wine, hmm? Bet you’re some kind of connoisseur, aren’t you? I don’t see you drinking cheap bodega wine.” 

“Certainly not,” Ezra says with a pompous little sniff that makes Crowley feel warm and silly. “If I’m going to drink wine, it had better be _quality.”_

“Well, what _quality_ wine did you drink when you typed the review for _Sins?”_ Crowley asks as he leans forward, intrigued. 

“Oh, I broke out an extra special bottle for your review,” Ezra says with a sparkle in his eye, “A 2016 Châteauneuf-du-Pape.” 

Crowley’s brows lift. “Sounds fancy. Never had it.” 

Ezra gasps as if Crowley had actually said something truly offensive. “You haven’t?” His hand is pressed to his heart, and it calls to mind some sort of southern belle or fairy tale princess, aghast at the grisly site before her, making her go weak in the knees. It’s a surprisingly good look on Ezra Fell, whereas on anyone else, Crowley might think they were being obnoxiously obtuse. “Oh, you simply must! Could I tempt you back to mine for a nightcap? The 2016 is simply delectab-“ he stops short, hand lifting from his chest to his mouth, and his eyes widen so comically round that he looks owlish. “Oh, that’s hardly proper, is it?” Ezra laments, “You must think me quite the fool-“ 

_“Never,”_ Crowley interrupts him emphatically. “I could never think you’re a fool.” And it’s true. Certainly, _he’d_ felt like the fool this entire time: getting so hung up on a review, _calling_ the critic in question to thank him, and then proceed to be a complete bumbling and ridiculous idiot the entire time. He’d never once entertained the thought that Ezra Fell might be anything less than the eloquent and sophisticated critic he seems to be in the papers. There, Ezra’s words flow like honey; sting like the sharpest blade. Either way, those he writes about crave to hear what he has to say. He always comes across so knowledgeable, as if he is intimately familiar with every single aspect of every single performance he reviews. 

Crowley never once thought that the man might be anything less than that brilliantly capable wordsmith in person. But seeing him get flustered- over _inviting him back to his place-_ makes Crowley wonder if he’s not the only one who feels deliciously out of sorts in this strange, new situation. 

Somehow, seeing a rosy pink spread across Ezra Fell’s cheeks makes Crowley feel so much better, and with a newfound sort of confidence, he takes the last bite of his eggs and pushes the plate aside, before digging into his duffle bag for some cash, “And if the offer is still good, then I’d _love_ a nightcap.” 

The man across from him _beams._ “Oh! Wonderful. Well then, shall we, my dear?” 

—

The walk is short, but pleasant. Ezra and Anthony talk idly as the former leads them toward his flat, discussing the performance he has to review. He’s remarkably funny, Crowley realizes, as Ezra explains what went wrong with the performance. His wit is biting and entertaining and Crowley genuinely can’t recall the last time he’s laughed this much. 

The streets are loud- it’s a Sunday evening in the heart of Soho, and despite tomorrow being a dreaded Monday, most people are out trying to cling to the last vestiges of a well-enjoyed weekend. But despite the lights and the music and cars zipping past, and the shouts of drunk university students having such a good time they’ll fail to remember it come tomorrow, Crowley can only really focus on Ezra. The rest feels like background noise, muffled through a filter that drowns out anything that isn’t this remarkably brilliant person next to him. 

They arrive at a boarded up bookshop, _A. Z. Fell & Co. Booksellers _says the chipped painted sign above the front door. Crowley scans the exterior of the building curiously. “A bookshop?” 

“Oh, heavens, no. Not anymore,” Ezra says as he opens the door and holds it open for Crowley, “After you.” 

Crowley steps inside. The interior looks like something out of the eighteen hundreds. It’s dusty, as one might expect an antique bookshop to be. There are bookshelves everywhere, lining the walls from floor to ceiling. Most of those shelves are empty, but there are plenty of books in stacks near the middle of the room, piled on a table and old desk. A few books line the shelves near the desk, and look to be as old as the building itself. The whole place looks worn, cozy, and oddly intimate, which is an odd feeling for a shop to exude, but it does nonetheless. There’s a counter to his left with an ancient cash register on it that looks as if it hasn’t been touched in a century. A few more books are piled there as well. 

After Ezra locks the door, he steps up beside Crowley and explains, “This building has been in my family for years.” He motions for Crowley to follow him toward the back, toward some stairs that look much newer than the dark hardwood of the creaky shop floor. “It was purchased in eighteen hundred, to be exact. We were a family of bookbinders and sellers. The building was partially destroyed,” he points to the back right corner, which looks more like a small den fit for a proper flat than in the corner of a shop, “Bombs; 1941. That used to be a small kitchenette. The back room was mostly used as a small living space, but it was severely damaged during the war. My grandfather rebuilt it and the top floor was added then, which was mostly storage space until I inherited it.” 

He opens the door, and steps inside. Crowley follows, enamored with the tale and the man telling it. The flat is certainly more modern, but it has that old-world charm clinging to it in the vintage tea set that rests on an old-fashioned linen on the table. There’s a tartan couch in the sitting room. Lace curtains. It’s a shabby-chic vintage that might be fit for Pinterest if it weren’t so genuinely shabby, and not the mass produced kind they sell in the decor box stores. 

“So is it not a bookshop anymore?” Crowley asks as he lets his bag slip from his shoulder, hanging it on the back of one of the antique kitchen chairs. 

“Oh, goodness no,” Ezra laughs, “No, the shop went out of business after the Second World War. But the building had been paid off for some time, and it is in a prime location, so my family kept it. We get offers occasionally from people who want to buy it, but I’ve managed to run them all off.” 

“Not interested in selling?” Crowley asks. 

“Certainly not!” Ezra laughs. “I shudder when I think of all the paperwork that would come with selling the place. No, it’s a part of my family, and a lovely piece of history. I am quite happy to keep it. I don’t need the money, at any rate. Not that I couldn’t fetch a hefty sum with some of those books down there.” 

“Did they come with the shop, then?” Crowley asks, fingers picking at the material of his duffle bag’s handle idly as he glances around.

“Some,” Ezra nods, “When the shop closed my grandparents sold off most of their collection. But they kept a few dozen to pass down through the family. And I’ve purchased several from collectors over the years. And lended others to universities.” 

Crowley doesn’t quite know what to say to that. It’s so… _impressive._ He’s never been a big reader, but here he is, standing on a literal treasure trove of literature. He can’t deny how incredible it all is. 

Ezra clears his throat, and turns to the wine cooler that sits on the corner of the otherwise sparse counter. Crowley sees his reflection in one of the glass cabinet doors, and recalls once more that he’s still covered in a ridiculous amount of makeup. “Er,” he grunts, causing Ezra to turn and look at him curiously. “Mind if I use your loo? Need to, uh,” he gestures vaguely at his face. 

“Of course, my dear,” Ezra says, pointing to the hallway to their left, “Second door on the left. If you need to use a rag, the linen closet is just before.” 

“Terrific,” Crowley says, grabbing his duffle bag and moving to the door Ezra directed him to. Once inside the bathroom- and after he takes a moment to snort over the antique floral wallpaper- he pulls out makeup wipes from his bag and begins to scrub his face. When he’s done he throws the wipes away in the small blue bin and then digs through his bag once more, realizing with dismay that the cleanser and moisturizer he normally has with him aren’t there. Frowning, he stands up to look at himself in the mirror, and grabs one last wipe to try and rub away the stubborn smudge of liner that’s staining his under eye. When he’s forced to accept that he isn’t going to be able to remove every trace of makeup, and is going to look a bit like a hungover college girl for the rest of the evening, he throws the package of wipes into his bag, then looks at the counter and notices that Ezra has a bottle of moisturizer. He takes a small pump into his hand, smears it between his fingers, and begins to massage it into reddened skin. 

It smells like rose water, and Crowley takes a moment to cup his fingers around his nose and inhale deeply. It’s fresh and clean, subtle and soothing. Like Ezra. Crowley’s eyes snap open and he looks at his reflection in the mirror and, unable to help himself, smiles. 

After he rubs in the moisturizer, he exits the bathroom. He leaves his bag there- no sense in lugging it around all over the flat- and walks out toward the small den where he can see Ezra has taken a seat on the hideous tartan couch. In one hand is a glass of wine; another sits on an antique looking coffee table that is covered with books and a vase of half-wilted roses. 

Crowley debates for a moment whether or not to join Ezra on the couch or to take a seat in the small armchair that’s across the room. Seeing that the glass of wine is placed- strategically, perhaps?- on the table closer to the sofa, he takes it as an invitation, and sits there, keeping one cushion of space between the two of them, for decency’s sake. He picks up the glass. 

Ezra holds out his own, “Cheers,” he says sweetly, and Crowley touches his glass to Ezra’s. 

“Cheers,” he repeats, then takes a small sip. It’s bold, earthy, and not too sweet. Crowley finds he rather likes it, though he isn’t certain if that’s entirely based on the flavor, or if it’s partially because of what the wine represents. “Not bad,” he says, then takes another sip. 

“I’m pleased it passes muster,” Ezra says as he takes another sip of his own glass, then shifts to regard Crowely more closely, “So, tell me more about _Sins,”_ he requests, “Was it your idea to dance _Lust,_ or were you assigned the part?” 

Crowley takes another sip of wine, getting a hint of clove and black currant on his tongue before answering, “Dagon didn’t do a formal audition. She knew who she wanted in the piece, and approached each of us individually. She had her own recommendations for us, but I know the girl who was originally picked for _Wrath_ actually requested _Sloth_ instead. When Dagon approached me, she offered me _Lust_ or _Gluttony,_ and with the latter, I would have done an exploration of an addiction to painkillers, and used my injury as a tool in the piece.” 

Ezra’s eyes widen. “That sounds fascinating. What made you choose _Lust_ instead?” 

Crowley glances down at his leg, and as if on cue feels a slight twinge of pain. “I’m reminded of my injury enough as it is,” he says simply, “Didn’t quite feel like shining further light on it. ‘Sides, _Lust_ is way more fun.” 

“You certainly suit the role,” Ezra remarks, then very quickly adds, “As does everyone, of course. They all seemed properly suited for their roles.” 

Crowley sees that same lovely flush return to Ezra’s cheeks, and whether it’s the wine or something else, he suddenly wonders if perhaps Ezra is attracted to him. 

He hopes so; he’s definitely attracted to Ezra. 

“It’s the hips,” Crowley says as he leans back against the arm of the sofa, “And I’m not just saying that to brag. If one more person hums the chorus of _Hips Don’t Lie_ at me, I may go mad.” 

Ezra tilts his head. “I’m not familiar with that song.” 

Unable to help himself, Crowley blinks. “What? You don’t know Shakira?” 

“Afraid not,” he replies, “I admit… I don’t listen to the radio much. I usually listen to something classical while I’m working, and I enjoy jazz. But I’ve just never put in the time to familiarize myself with modern music.” 

Crowley stares, and then laughs. “Well that won’t do!” He exclaims, “There’s plenty of incredible music out there that isn’t from the eighteen hundreds.”

“What music do you like, then?” Ezra asks. 

Crowley takes a moment to consider. How to choose a select few? “Well, I’m a big fan of The Velvet Underground,” he says to start. 

“Don’t know them,” Ezra answers, unsurprisingly. 

“Queen,” Crowley says. 

Ezra thinks, then brightens. “Oh! They do that song with the clapping!” 

“The… clapping?” Crowley repeats, stunned. “There are _tons_ of songs with clapping.” 

“Yes, but this one is-“ Ezra pauses a moment, then proceeds to pat his thighs twice, followed by clapping his hands together once. “That one.” 

“We Will Rock You,” Crowley clarifies, unable to keep from grinning stupidly at the adorably out-of-touch man before him. He’s so utterly charming, so sweet, so handsome- 

“What else do you like?” 

Crowley shakes away those distracting thoughts. “Oh. Um. David Bowie. The Cure. Siouxsie and the Banshees. New Order. Joy Division. Killing Joke. Depeche Mode.” 

Aziraphale stares blankly. “I don’t think I understood a single thing you just said,” he remarks, “Goodness. I really am stuck in the past, aren’t I?” 

Crowley shrugs. “It’s what you like,” he says simply, “I like the classics too. Mozart’s one…uh, Beethoven, Schubert, all the Bach’s,” he pauses, then adds, “Favorite’s probably the one about all the planets.” 

“Holst!” Ezra says excitedly, “Oh, yes, _The Planets_ is remarkable!” 

Their conversation continues, easy and light and enjoyable. Crowley finds himself completely enamored with Ezra, and a small part of him wonders why he’d ever been so reluctant to reach out to him in the first place. The man is delightful; and not nearly as serious as Crowley would have imagined. 

They’re in the middle of a debate about who the best Odette/Odile is, when the antique cuckoo clock on the wall bursts to life, startling them both as it begins to chirp and clang, signaling to both that-

“It’s _midnight!”_ Ezra exclaims in genuine surprise. “Goodness, the time has flown by. I hardly even noticed.” 

Crowley decides to take that as a polite request for him to go, and so he finishes the last sip of his wine and stands, arching his back to stretch and twisting slightly until a small series of _pops_ makes him sigh in relief. “I don’t want to intrude,” Crowley says once the clock quiets down, “I’ve probably overstayed my welcome, anyway.” 

“Oh,” Ezra says, standing as well, and for a moment, Crowely thinks there’s a touch of disappointment there. “Yes, of course. I don’t want to keep you longer than necessary, either.” 

Crowley steps forward, clutching the empty wine glass by the stem and moves to go toward the kitchen. “I’ll wash this before I go,” he says, “It was very good wine. Thank you.” 

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Ezra protests, “You’re my guest; I don’t expect you to do the washing. I can manage.” 

“You sure?” 

“I insist.” 

“Alright,” Crowley says, holding out the glass for Ezra to take. The blond man reaches out, fingers brushing Crowley’s as he goes to take it. Both freeze, and Ezra glances up to meet Crowley’s amber eyes, and the dancer is shocked to see Ezra’s eyes blown wide and full of something he very much recognizes, but isn’t sure if he should call attention to. 

Ezra doesn’t pull away. 

Taking a great risk, Crowley leans closer. “I don’t really want to leave,” he admits in a whisper. He watches with satisfaction as Ezra lets out a sigh of relief. 

“I don’t really want you to go.” 

With a gentle tug, Crowley guides Ezra a step closer. Ezra’s free hand wraps around Crowley’s slim hips as Crowley’s hand lifts to caress Ezra’s face, and their lips meet. 

Ezra tastes like wine; earthy and bold, just the barest hint of sweetness. It’s far better than the wine Crowley drank from his glass, and he brushes his tongue against Ezra’s lips, seeking permission to taste more of him. Ezra’s mouth opens, swallowing down the sigh that slips from Crowley as their lips slide against each other, tongues and teeth nipping and teasing each other desperately. 

Ezra breaks away after a moment, gasping for air and panting as he stares up at Crowley. “Do you want to-“ 

“Yes,” Crowley answers instantly, moving to press a kiss to the other man’s cheek, then to his jaw, then down the column of his throat. 

Ezra groans and presses closer. “I- I didn’t specify-“ 

Crowley lifts his head. “If it involves you touching me, especially without clothing, then _yes._ Absolutely, emphatically, _yes.”_

With a sharp exhale, Ezra tugs the glass out of Crowley’s hand and places it next to his own before reaching out to drag Crowley closer, and kissing him again, hot and eager. He takes a step back, and Crowley follows willingly, releasing Ezra’s face to tug off his jacket. Ezra wastes no time lifting one hand to tangle in his red tresses, causing Crowely to groan as desire shoots straight down to his core. 

_“Fuck,”_ he growls surging forward to kiss Ezra again. 

“That’s the idea,” Ezra responds against his mouth as he takes a few more steps backwards towards the bedroom. They reach the hallway and Crowley shifts, using the leverage he has to press Ezra against the wall, slipping his leg in between Ezra’s and grinding against him. They both release a broken sort of groan at the feeling, and Ezra releases Crowley in an effort to tug off his overcoat. 

Inspired, Crowley yanks off his top, then reaches for Ezra’s bow tie, undoing it in a few fumbling tugs before starting on the buttons of Ezra’s dress shirt. Eager, Ezra runs his hands over the smooth skin of Crowley’s back, dragging a moan from the dancer as soft fingers lightly scratch over toned muscle. 

“Bed,” Ezra murmurs, alternating between letting Crowely press bruising kisses to his neck and capturing his lips in heated, messy kisses. 

_“Yes,”_ Crowley breathes, and steps away from Ezra all at once, leaving them both cold and displeased at the separation. They rush into the bedroom, where Ezra hurriedly tugs off his vest, tie, shirt, and undershirt. When he reaches for his trousers, Crowley is there, batting his hands away and slipping down onto his knees, dragging the zipper down over the obvious bulge, and tugging. 

As his hands lift back up to grab the waistline of Ezra’s underwear, the critic rests his hands over Crowley’s, stopping him a moment. “I’m clean,” he says hurriedly, breathlessly. “Tested after my last relationship ended six years ago. Not been with anyone since.” 

Crowley nods. “Tested after a one night stand a year and a half ago. Clean, too. Not been with anyone else either.” 

At that Ezra nods, seemingly glad to have that out of the way, and pushes Crowley’s hands down, dragging his boxer briefs down as they go. When he’s bared before Crowley, the dancer can’t help but lick his lips and glance up at Ezra. “Holy _shit_ I’m going to enjoy this.” 

Without waiting for a reply, Crowley leans forward and takes Ezra in his mouth, and the sound the other man unleashes at the feeling is enough to make Crowley nearly climax. He forces himself to focus and instead sweeps his tongue up the underside of Ezra’s cock, delighting in the low groan that escapes Ezra. “Oh, _my dear,”_ he breathes, hand lifting to catch in Crowley’s hair once more.

This time Crowely can’t help but moan as that hand clenches, gripping his hair in a wonderfully tight grasp. He pulls away from Ezra’s cock to murmur, “Harder,” then resumes sucking him off, one hand squeezing the base while the other lifts to fondle his balls, which causes Ezra’s grip in his hair to tighten to the point of pain. Crowley trembles and drops one hand to his lap, grinding against his palm in a desperate search for relief from his own painfully hard arousal. 

“Oh, you are _wonderful,”_ Ezra sighs, and Crowley takes the opportunity to glance up, and the sight of Ezra’s head thrown back, his eyes closed, and mouth falling open is the most sinfully delectable thing Crowley has ever seen. 

After another minute or so, Ezra uses his grip on Crowley’s hair to tug, and when he does it three times in quick succession, Crowley releases Ezra from his lips again to look up. 

“Come here,” Ezra says, and the command makes Crowley knees buckle as he tries to rise. 

Ezra wastes no time sealing his lips against Crowley’s, tasting him with quick licks against his lower lip and tongue. He wraps his other arm around Crowley’s waist and tugs him closer once more, and through Crowley’s black jeans he can feel the heat of their mutual arousals press together, eliciting a strangled moan from him, while Ezra sighs in contentment. “Bed,” he repeats against Crowley’s lips, then releases him to turn and open the old, chipped night stand to pull out a bottle of lube. 

Crowley falls back onto the bed, kicks off his boots, and tugs his pants off before throwing them off to the side. Ezra, who has also taken a moment to kick off his own shoes, trousers, and underwear, joins Crowley on the bed and wastes no time pulling the two of them together. Crowley shifts, moving to straddle Ezra’s hips. As he does he feels the slightest twinge in his knee, but his aching cock is far more demanding in the moment, and so he ignores it in favor of grinding against Ezra, soaking up the desperate sounds that slip from the man’s mouth. 

Ezra’s arm wraps around him, holding him close as he reaches down with his other hand, now slick with lube, to grasp both of their cocks. Crowley hisses at the contact, and his eyes slip shut, head falling against Ezra’s shoulder. His hips jerk as Ezra's hand begins to move. “Been a while,” he mutters, “Might not last.” 

“Neither will I,” Ezra breathes as he strokes them, gasping as he begins to stroke faster, harder. “ _Oh, darling._ You feel wonderful.” 

Crowley preens at the praise. Reaching down, he drapes one hand over Ezra’s plump, slick fingers, and feels as Ezra strokes them. Groaning, he lifts his head so he can capture Ezra’s lips in a messy, unsophisticated kiss that is returned with equal fervor. Their joined hands speed up, and Crowley’s hips begin to thrust downward in a jerking, desperate way. “‘M close, angel,” he manages to murmur against Ezra’s lips. 

“As am I,” he replies, and then he gasps, stiffens, and spills over their joined hands and his stomach. It’s enough to send Crowley spiraling over the edge after him, and he cries out helplessly as he cums. 

—

Crowley has long since forgotten the unnerving and confusing feeling of waking up in an unfamiliar place. He’d had a bit of a wild streak in his early twenties where he would frequently wake up in a stranger's bed, though he’d dropped that habit after he missed a dress rehearsal and was nearly fired. Then he’d woken up in the hospital after his surgery, only able to vaguely recall a blinding sense of pain, and a searing flash of heat that started in his leg and traveled throughout the rest of him at lightning speed. He hates waking up in an unfamiliar place. 

And yet somehow, when he opens his eyes, sees the lace curtains that let in more sun than he’s used to, when he feels the stiffness of the mattress beneath him, when he registers the warm arm wrapped around him, and smells a mix of sex and rose water in the air… he knows _exactly_ where he is. 

For a long moment, Crowley simply lingers. It’s warm and cozy, and the feeling of Ezra’s arm around him makes him feel more secure and safe than he’s felt in a long time. From where Ezra is pressed up against him, he can feel his breath on the back of his neck; can feel the gentle way his chest shifts with each inhale and exhale. It’s so peaceful, in this waking moment, and Crowley wishes more than anything that he could close his eyes, and simply let the utter contentment he feels lull him back to sleep. 

But he has to get to the studio. And he’s not sure if Ezra wants to wake up with him still here. Carefully, Crowley sits up, gently slipping out of Ezra’s embrace. He looks around wistfully, at the tangled sheets that are stained with cum, at the haphazard trail of clothing that leads out of the bedroom. He looks down and sees Ezra, still asleep, white-blond curls a delicious mess. 

He’s beautiful. So much so that Crowley’s breath catches in his chest, and he has to force himself to look away, lest he do something foolish like reach out and touch him; brush his fingers over that soft, plump cheek, over those soft, delectable lips. Over his shoulders that are tinged purple with a few bruises. 

Carefully, Crowley slips out of the bed, and moves to where Ezra’s nightstand is. He flips open the phone, (who on earth still has a flip phone?!) and when the screen reads _7:25_ all peace and longing and lingering happiness drains from him. 

_“Shit!”_

He turns, quietly trying to locate his clothing. He grabs everything, taking the time to pick up and fold Ezra’s clothing while he’s at it, then tip toes to the bathroom to take a sink-shower, wiping himself down with a rag from the linen closet to try and rid himself of the dried mess from last night. 

Once clean enough, he dresses in last night’s clothing, uses another pump of Ezra’s moisturizer (and oh, if rose water isn’t his new favorite scent…) and then moves to the kitchen. 

He stops then, and debates on what to do. He’s not sure if this is a one night stand; if he needs to simply slip out and never think of this again. But Ezra isn’t like other men he’s encountered. He actually _likes_ him. He’s long respected him, long admired him. More than once he has hung on Ezra’s every word, relishing the praise he offers and taking the critiques to heart. But now he’s _had_ him. Been in his bed. Seen Ezra’s face as he comes; knows what to do to _make_ him come. And he wants to do it again. And again. And again. He doesn’t want this to be just a one-off, but he doesn’t know how Ezra feels. And regardless of what they _want,_ Crowley _needs_ to get to the studio to change into fresh clothes from his locker and warm up. He doesn’t have time to go have a heart-to-heart talk with Ezra Fell about, “what do you want out of this?” 

Turning about, Crowley sees a notepad on the old, beat up fridge. He steps up to it, noticing the top page has a list of items written out in an elegantly swooping script: 

  * _Fresh mint_


  * _Avocado_


  * _Bread (from Thelma’s bakery)_


  * _Shampoo_
  * _Sweets for office luncheon (next Thursday)_



It’s so banal, but Crowley can’t help but smile at the list. He lifts the page, carefully tears out the piece underneath, and then quietly rummages through the cabinet drawers until he finds a pen. 

Hastily, he scrawls out: 

_Ezra,_

_Had to leave to get to class at the studio. Didn’t want to wake you._

_Last night was terrific._

Crowley stops; frowns. _Terrific?_ He mouths to himself, and for a moment he considers scribbling out the word, or tossing the paper into the bin and grabbing another page to start over. He glances at the clock on the wall. 

7:41

“Shit.” 

_Terrific_ will have to do. It’s not that it’s not accurate, anyway. It just feels… lame.

_No pressure if you want this to be a one-and-done deal. I really hope it’s not, but I’ll respect your wishes if you do._

He wonders absently if the note comes off as desperate as he adds his mobile number, then signs his name. He reads over it once more and decides he doesn’t care if it’s desperate because he _is_ desperate, and that is that. Quietly, he slips back into the bedroom to lay the letter on Ezra’s nightstand. He takes one last look at Ezra Fell, and as he slips out of the building, he hopes against hope that this isn’t the last they see of each other. 

—

“What is _with_ you today?” Bea hisses as they shove away from Crowley, signaling to the sound guy to stop the music. The classical strings cut off abruptly, and Bea shoots Crowley a sharp, displeased look. “That is the _third time_ you’ve almost dropped me. Where the fuck is your head? Do you not want to do this piece with me?”

“No, no, I _do,”_ Crowely insists, holding his hands up in a surrender. “I love the piece, Bea. I’m just… distracted.” 

“Well, get _un-_ distracted,” they snap, “You’ve been weird all morning.” At this they stop, and look at him with a scrutinizing squint. “Are you all right?” They ask with a surprising amount of sincerity. 

Crowley takes a moment. That’s the problem. He _is_ alright. He can’t stop thinking about last night; how he’d accidentally run into the only other person who has always seemed genuinely supportive of him, whose critique quite literally saved his arse. Who had brought him off in the most incredible way last night, after they’d spent two hours talking and laughing and flirting. He couldn’t be _better._

Though, he knows his distraction is more from worrying that Ezra Fell experienced something completely different than he did, and decides to leave last night in the past, and never contact Crowley ever again. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stand that. He _will,_ if that’s what Ezra wants; but he desperately hopes that this isn’t it. 

“I’m great,” Crowley says, swallowing thickly after he says it, “Just had a bit of a restless night, s’all. Nothing else.” 

Bea stares at him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Finally they sigh, and the aggressive posture drops and they rest their hand on their hips. “Fine,” they sigh, “Let’s let this be for today, then. We still have rehearsal for _Sins_ later, and I don’t want you fucking that up either. Go…” she waves a hand, “I dunno. Do something. Clear your head. We can work on this tomorrow. But you _better_ be ready to go, hear me?” 

“I hear you,” Crowley says as he sits down and begins stretching. Bea stares for a moment, then huffs and moves to sit beside him. They join him in stretching. Bea waves the sound guy away, and he leaves with a grumble. 

“You wanna… talk?” They ask, clearly finding the offer distasteful. Crowley huffs out a laugh. 

“We both know you don’t want to do that,” he says, letting them off the hook. “Besides, nothing’s wrong. Leg is fine. Mostly. I just couldn’t sleep. It happens to the best of us.” 

They nod, watching him carefully, then let the subject drop. 

It’s not that Crowley doesn’t want to tell Bea. He does. He wants to shout from the rooftops just how great last night had been, but he knows better. 

He doesn’t know what Ezra thinks of this. And he doubts Ezra would appreciate his private business being spread around like the latest gossip. Besides, Crowley knows it could be twisted- that he slept with Ezra as a bribe or something. Yelling excitedly about sleeping with a critic who so recently praised you could be seen as something it most certainly wasn’t, and Crowley isn’t about to further put his career at risk, nor do something stupid to potentially invalidate Ezra Fell’s sterling reputation. 

When he’s finished stretching, he and Bea have lunch on the roof, then return to the studio to warm up before _Sins_ rehearsals. Once he’s warmed up, Crowley slips down the hallway to the dressing room and pulls his phone out of his locker, swearing he won’t be too disappointed when there’s no new message. 

Except there is. From a number he doesn’t recognize. 

Heart in his throat, Crowley opens the message, and has to bite his lip to suppress the pitifully embarrassing squeak that tries to explode from his chest. 

**Unknown:** _Terrific, huh? I’m quite flattered._

 **Unknown:** _Next time, wake me before you go. I’ll cook us breakfast._

Crowley stares at the message, eyes unable to focus on anything except two words: _next time._

Next time. 

Ezra Fell wants there to be a _next time_. 

Crowley clutches his phone to his chest, and, happier than he’s been in years, lets out a ridiculously giddy laugh that, if anyone else hears, he will never live down. _Next time_. 

Before he can really stop to think about what his reply might be- something smooth and suave and worthy of a man who makes a living by using his words, Crowley’s thumbs begin to move of their own accord: 

**Crowley:** _Only if you let me buy you dinner first. When are you free?_

He stares at the screen, at the response he’s just typed out. Is it too certain? Too bossy? Too cheesy? He has no idea, but apparently the word _terrific_ had charmed the critic, so maybe he shouldn’t worry too much about whether or not he sounds as debonair as he’d like to pretend he is. Crowley can exude grace and confidence with practiced ease. Except, apparently, when it _actually_ matters. For heaven’s sake, he’d performed _Lust_ in front of thousands of people by now, including Ezra Fell. The man _knows_ Crowley can embody sensuality. But apparently Crowley has left his ability to be anything but a bumbling moron with a schoolboy crush on the stage. 

Not that Ezra seems to notice. Or care. 

Crowley sends the message. 

He stares at it for a minute, then decides to put it out of his mind and dance out his feelings during rehearsal. Perhaps dancing _Lust_ will help him unscramble some of the jumbled up thoughts in his head; untangle the heartstrings that are all crossed and twisted thanks to two simple words: _next time_. 

His phone buzzes in his hand. Crowley nearly drops the thing in his haste to open the message. 

**Unknown:** _I am attending a show tonight, and will be working on the review tomorrow. Are you dancing ‘Lust’ Wednesday? I could attend- not as a critic, of course- and we could grab a bite after?_

Crowley swears his heart is going to burst out of his chest. His hands are sweating, and his stomach has twisted around itself so tightly that it’s practically formed a gordian knot in his gut, and somehow it’s the best feeling in the world. Crowley grins as he hears commotion outside, dancers filling into the studio for rehearsal. Quickly, he types: 

**Crowley:** _Sounds_ _perfect. Back to rehearsal now. Can’t wait for Wednesday. xo_

He hits send, practically throws his phone into the locker, lest he never let it go in the hope that Ezra might text him back. He shuts the door, then turns, sagging against it for a moment, letting the silly, love struck feeling wash over him. He’s going to see Ezra on Wednesday. Ezra is coming to see him dance. It’s not professional. There’s no review to freak out over; no article to equally fear and crave. It’s just Ezra. Coming to see the show. 

Coming to watch Crowley. Perform _Lust._

He vows to make it the best performance of his career. If he can dance as well as he did that first night in a desperate plea to save his career, how much better can he be if he’s dancing for the _man_ that has been inspiring his performance in recent days? 

He leaves the dressing room, and enters the studio, where Dagon and Michael are speaking quietly. Crowely takes his place in the back of the room, next to Bea, and then Michael steps away, throwing a hard, judging look at each dancer as she sweeps out of the room. For the first time in a long time, Crowley finds he isn’t phased by her intimidating persona. 

Dagon leads the dancers through a quick floor routine as a final warm up, then the dancers get in their places to run through _Sins._ Crowley stretches his leg carefully as he waits, keeping it warm and loose. He has a small role in _Pride,_ and dances it with a sort of absent mindedness that borders on freedom, and then he watches as Bea moves through _Wrath_ with that otherworldly grace that earned them the spot of principal dancer. Finally it’s his turn, and Crowley takes his place, waiting for the music to start. He lets his eyes slip shut for a moment, and while previously he would simply try to channel vague sorts of thoughts to inspire a lustful feeling within him, now he can only think of Ezra Fell. Of how delicious the taste of wine had been on his tongue. How feeling his hand in his hair had stung so perfectly. How it had felt to rut against him, and to feel Ezra tremble against him in turn. He thinks of Ezra’s words, how they saved him, how he still has a career because Ezra Fell saw something in him worthwhile and-

Crowley leaps into a tour jeté, and when he lands it takes him a moment to register that the sickening _pop_ he hears came from his knee. Before he has time to register the pain, he falls hard onto the studio floor, and _then_ it registers. A scream falls from his lips. 

_Oh please no,_ he thinks despairingly, before the pain overtakes all coherent thought and he blacks out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😬
> 
> —
> 
> Part III: Crowley grapples with the physical and emotional turmoil of his injury. Ezra steps up to the challenge of helping Crowley cope.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley grapples with the physical and emotional turmoil of his injury. Ezra steps up to the challenge of helping Crowley cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos on Part II! I’m sorry I was so mean to Crowley, but I promise things will get better for him! 
> 
> Warning: Michael is a bit emotionally manipulative in this chapter, and she touches Crowley without his consent (she grabs his face). 
> 
> —
> 
> And on to Part III!

  
**Part III**

  
Crowley comes to, blinking as his vision swims. Above him he sees two Dagon’s and two Bea’s looking at him in concern. He groans and sits up, mostly thanks to Bea helping hoist him up. Other dancers are crowded around, looking on with worry but keeping their distance. Crowley takes a moment to orient himself and after a moment realizes Dagon is speaking to him. “-ley? You okay?” 

Groaning, Crowley clutches his knee and nods. It hurts, but he’s certain that it’s just strained. He hadn’t taken care of it last night- not that he regrets that- but now he’s really feeling it, and tries to ignore the nausea he feels swimming in his stomach. 

“‘M okay,” he murmurs as he shifts, wincing when his knee protests, “Think I’m done for the day, though.” 

Dagon nods sympathetically, then looks over her shoulder. “Eric!” She snaps. A young dancer steps forward. 

“Yes, ma’am?” 

“You’re dancing  _ Lust  _ the rest of this week.”

“No!” Crowley exclaims, reaching out to grab Dagon’s wrist. She turns back to look at him in surprise. “Let me dance Wednesday,” Crowley says softly, “I can rest tonight and tomorrow. I’ll dance Wednesday, and then Eric can have the rest of the shows.” 

“We’ll discuss it later,” Dagon says firmly, nodding to Bea who helps Dagon hoist Crowley into his feet. He hisses in pain. She turns back to Eric. “You’re on tonight. Go get fitted in a costume.” 

Eric nods and rushes out of the room. Dagon turns to the rest of the group, “Stretch. I’ll be back in a bit to let Eric run through the piece.” 

With that she and Bea help Crowley limp out of the studio. 

—

Once settled in a bed in the physical therapy room, Dagon shoos Bea away and leans in close to Crowley as she gently elevates his leg and places an ice pack on him. He winces and shifts it, then sags against the bed, feeling the horrid, cold weight of defeat.

“Michael is going to be pissed,” Dagon says softly, moving out of the way as a sweet looking older woman with blonde hair and a penchant for wearing the brightest colors and patterns walks in. 

“Oh, dear,” she sighs upon seeing who is in her bed. “Let’s get a look at you.” 

“He landed wrong on his  _ tour jeté, Doctor Tracy,”  _ Dagon explains. 

Tracy tuts in dismay, and begins inspecting his knee. Crowley hisses in pain, but forces himself not to move, watching as Tracy works. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he feels a hot flash hit him, and for a moment thinks he might black out again. 

A cool hand on the back of his neck startles him, and he glances up to see Dagon give him an assuring look while moving her hand back and forth in soothing strokes against his shoulder blades. 

Finally, after a few minutes, Tracy stands upright. “Well,” she says, “You’ve certainly upset things, but nothing some rest and a few rounds of PT won’t fix. You’ll be back to it in no time, luv.” 

Crowley falls back against the bed. His hands cover his face as he groans in utter relief. He peeks out from behind his fingers. “Can I dance Wednesday?” 

Tracy makes a face. “I don’t recommend it,” she says, “But you know your body best. If you think you can dance by then, I won’t stop you, but I will insist on resting as much as possible; and regardless I’m putting you down for six sessions of therapy.”

“Perfect,” Crowley says, accepting any conditions he has to in order to dance Wednesday. He can’t let this opportunity slip by. He  _ can’t.  _

“Well, I’m going to get you some pain meds. I know you aren’t keen on using it, but I would rather you have it and not need it.” 

“Alright.” 

“And no more dancing today. Go home and rest. That’s an order.” She taps him playfully on the nose, and exits the room. Crowley sighs and moves to sit up, but the look Dagon gives him stops him in his tracks. 

“Why are you so dead set on dancing Wednesday?” She asks curiously, leaning closer to him, staring hard. 

Crowley shrugs, evading the question. “You heard Tracy. I’m fine. Didn’t stretch enough last night and I overdid it today. Nothing to worry about. Eric can do tonight and tomorrow. I’ll take Wednesday and see how I feel. I can do it, I swear.” 

“Crowley-“

“I can dance Wednesday,” Crowley insists stubbornly. “Please, Dagon.” 

She looks conflicted, and her gaze falls to Crowley’s knee. Absently she runs her hands through her hair, musing her bun, taking her time as she weighs her options. Finally she looks up.  _ “If  _ I say yes-“ 

“Which you will not be doing.” 

Crowley and Dagon jerk, the latter spinning around to see Michael standing there, looking horribly unimpressed, and quite possibly near-livid. 

Dagon seems to shrink, and bows her head in submission. “Ms. St. Claire.” 

“Out.” 

She nods, then turns and gives Crowley a pitying look.  _ Sorry,  _ she mouths, then presses a kiss to his temple, and rushes out of the room. Crowely’s fists clench at his sides, and he takes a calming, steadying breath. He’s not afraid. He’s not afraid. 

Michael stares at him for several silent, tense moments, then steps forward, elegant in her rigidity. “Oh, dear. Not  _ again,” _ she says, moving her hands from where they’d been clasped behind her back, a Manila folder containing a thick stack of papers in her left, “And just as I was coming to give you your contract.” 

Unceremoniously, she drops the folder, directly onto his knee. It’s not heavy, but it’s certainly enough to hurt. As a show of stubbornness Crowley bites the inside of his jaw to keep from making a sound. He keeps his eyes on her, on her stern features and unkind gaze. She’s a hard woman, and he’s certain she has her reasons, but he also knows that there is no excuse for this. 

“I’m a dancer,” he remarks with an ease that he is surprised he can manage, “And dancers get injured. And then they get up, and they dance again. We  _ prepare  _ for these things,” Crowley reminds her, “I’ll be back on stage before you have time to miss me.” 

Michael’s expression doesn’t change, be he notices a sharp glint in her eye that suggests she didn’t like his comment. “You are a true thorn in my side,” she says as she leans closer to him, staring him down, “But luckily for you, you sell tickets. And you have friends in… relevant places,” she sneers, “God only knows why.”

_ Because Ezra likes me,  _ Crowley thinks stubbornly,  _ I don’t know why either, but I’m grateful for it.  _

“I could quit,” Crowley says suddenly, and the thought actually feels good. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on that realization. “Take away those ticket sales you so desperately want.” 

It’s his only bargaining chip, but if Michael’s smirk is any indication, it’s not enough. “You could,” she says, standing back up, making it clear that she is lording her authority over him, “But you won’t. You’re safe here, Anthony. I’m  _ guaranteeing  _ you a job. Everyone knows you’re a liability. You could try to slither your way into another company, but once people realize you’re just one wrong step away from that knee of yours giving out completely, they’re not going to want to take the risk. I’m doing you a favor by keeping you on, really.”

It hurts, because he knows it’s true. “How kind,” he bites out. 

“It  _ is  _ kind,” Michael agrees, tone softer and, if Crowley didn’t know her so well, bordering on sweet. “Letting you stay is a kindness that few others would grant you.” 

“Or,” Crowley remarks, “Maybe you’re keeping me because you get off on being a control-“ 

The rest of his response is cut short by the sharp sting of nails digging into his jaw, jerking his head to meet her gaze which is hard and furious. “Show some respect,” she hisses, then releases him roughly. “Eric is filling in for you the rest of the run.” 

“No!” Crowley exclaims, thrashing and making his knee throb with pain. He ignores it with great determination. “That’s not fair! I’ll be fine!” 

Michael crosses her arms, staring at him knowingly. “Unless you can get up  _ right now  _ and perform without issue, then the decision is final.”

She steps back and gestures to the open space around them, then waits expectantly. Crowley stares at the floor, feeling absolutely defeated. He feels like the floor is falling out from beneath him and he’s flailing for anything to grab onto. There’s nothing. Resolutely, he doesn’t move, and neither does he meet Michael’s eyes. 

She makes a satisfied sound. “That’s what I thought.” Then she frowns, giving him almost a pitying look, and steps closer, lightly touching his cheek. Crowley flinches. “You poor dear,” she sighs, “I know this is hard for you, but think how hard it is for everyone else, now they have to pick up where you’ve fallen. Anyone else would read the writing on the wall and replace you in an instant. But not me. Remember that, Anthony.” 

With that, she turns on her heel and marches out of the room. When she reaches the door, she calls out over her shoulder, “Make sure to have that contract on my desk by next week.” 

Crowley stares down at the contract on his lap. With a snarl he snatches it, gripping it so tightly that he crumples the paper, and forces himself to stand. His knee throbs, but he powers through it. Tracy catches him with his medicine and schedule for physical therapy- the first to be held on the upcoming Friday. 

“Try not to let her get to you, luv,” Tracy says to him as he turns to go. “You’ve still got a long career ahead of you.” 

Crowley says nothing, but nods in thanks, then limps to the dressing room where he shoves his belongings into his duffle bag. He grabs his phone, intending to call a cab to take him home- he knows he can’t drive the Bentley. His knee hurts too much and he’s so drained and nauseous from the pain that he’d rather not take the chance. He unlocks the phone, pausing when he sees another text from Ezra.

**Unknown:** _ Nor can I. Break a leg, my dear. _

A sob escapes Crowley, and he shuts his eyes to force down the tears.  _ Not here,  _ he demands of himself.  _ Not here.  _

Doing his best to get a hold of himself, he quickly calls a cab service, then begins the agonizing limp toward the exit. He should ask for help, he knows, but he presses on stubbornly anyway. He nearly makes it outside when he hears a door slam and footsteps hastily rushing down the hallway. Crowley knows those steps. He stops and sighs. “Bea, dont-“ 

“What the  _ fuck?”  _

“Just drop it,” Crowley murmurs, too tired and depressed to deal with Bea’s volatile attitude. “Please, Bea.”

“The rest of the  _ run?!”  _

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to turn to them. “Please let it go, Bea. I just want to go home.” 

Bea moves to stand in front of him. “I’m coming with you-“ 

“No.”

Bea stops short, glaring. “Don’t tell me-“ 

“Bea,” Crowley says, firmly, and Bea stops, having never heard him speak to them like that before. 

“Crowley…” 

“I just want to go home,” he says softly, “And I want to sleep the rest of the day away. Alone. Please go back. Dance for me.” He lifts his eyes to look at them. “Please, Bea. I’ll be okay.” 

They stare at him for a long moment, clearly debating on whether or not to listen to his request. Finally, they choose to respect his wishes. “I will call you later,” they say softly, gripping Crowley’s hand. “Michael can’t get away with this shit.” 

“She can, she has, and she will,” Crowley sighs, “And I just want to go home.” 

“Okay,” Bea breathes, “But I’m helping you get to the cab.”

Crowley sighs and lets them lead him outside, leaning heavily on their smaller frame. They help him into the back, gives the driver his address, then turn their attention back to Crowley. “You’re gonna be fine,” they tell him. “I promise.” 

A moment of silence passes, then, “Thanks, Bea,” he murmurs. They nod, pat him on the shoulder, then lets him go. 

—

When he arrives at his building, he takes the elevator to his flat, then limps to his door, unlocks it with a trembling hand. He drops his bag just past the threshold, locks the door, and simply stands, weight on his left leg to compensate. Glancing around his apartment, he sighs, knowing he’s going to be stuck here for the next few days and suddenly hating every square inch of the place he calls home. 

Slowly, he limps around, doing as much as he can in one go so he won’t have to get up again. He waters his plants, which take up every spare space on shelves and window sills. When he’s done he goes to the kitchen, collecting a bottle of water, ice pack, medicine, and a few protein bars. He then finds his phone, grabs his laptop, and limps into his room where he drops everything on the bed. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he carefully toes off his trainers, strips off his clothes, grabs some black shorts and a black, oversized sweatshirt, and then crawls under the covers. 

It’s only then that he feels the dam behind his eyes burst, and he lays there and cries until he eventually drifts into a restless sleep. 

—

It’s after seven o’clock when he wakes up. The first thing he does is test his leg, and he grunts in pain. The ice pack has melted, leaving a wet spot on the bed, and Crowley tosses it aside with a curse. He picks up his phone, and sees that both Dagon and Bea have sent him texts, as well as Eric and the sound guy, a grungy looking man named Ligur, all of whom offer varying forms of encouragement. 

He drops his phone, pops a couple pills, then eats half a protein bar so as not to have the meds on an empty stomach. Then he picks up the phone again, opening it to the messages app, and rereads the ones between him and Ezra. Tears well in his eyes once more, and Crowley tries hard to resist the urge to throw his phone across the room. He grabs one of the unopened protein bars and throws that instead. It hits the wall with a satisfying  _ thump.  _

He’d been looking so forward to Wednesday. To dancing for Ezra, to using the lust that had been shared between them as the inspiration for that performance. To seeing if Ezra would understand. To telling Ezra how he’d thought of his hands on him, and then showing him exactly where he wanted those hands to be. 

“Fucking god damned shit,” Crowley growls, burying his head in his hands.

He doesn’t want to text Ezra. He’s at work and Crowley doesn’t want to distract him. Neither can he text the others. They’re on stage, where he should be. Crowley flops onto his back with a frustrated growl. He lays there, staring up at the ceiling for a while, wishing with all his might that things could be different. But they aren’t, and this is his lot in life. Such that it is. 

He dozes until nine, then limps to the bathroom to take a quick shower. The water is blessedly hot, and helps to relax Crowley. He emerges feeling better, and then he moves back to his room, and does a couple exercises he’d learned from his previous run of physical therapy, then crawls back into bed. He checks his phone. It’s half past nine. 

With a long suffering sigh, Crowley taps his fingers against the screen then, after adding Ezra to his contacts, he types out a quick text. Ezra deserves an explanation, at the very least. 

**Crowley:** _ I’m really sorry about this, but I won’t be dancing Wednesday. Can we take a rain check?  _

He doesn’t know if he needs to add more than that, but he’s honestly too tired and defeated to really care. He sends the message, elevates his leg, and then shuts his eyes, hoping that when he wakes up, all of this will have been a terrible dream. 

He wakes to his phone ringing. Groggily he wipes his face, and blindly reaches out, assuming its Bea, calling as they promised. He answers without looking and slams the phone next to his pillow, pressing the button to put it on speaker. “Yeah?” 

“My dear boy, what happened?” 

Crowley’s eyes widen.  _ Shit.  _

Grabbing the phone, he sees Ezra’s name, and vaguely recalls sending a message before falling asleep. He presses the phone back to his ear. “Hey. Sorry. Thought you were my friend calling.” 

Ezra doesn’t seem to care about being mistaken for someone else. “What. Happened.” He asks again, tone stern and demanding. Were he in a better state of mind, Crowley might remark on how he likes that tone. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t. 

“Nothing,” Crowley says, moving so he can sit up. He’s groggy, the medicine dulling his senses and making him feel as if he’s moving about in a dense London fog. “Just-“ 

He thinks back to the giddiness he’d felt at the thought of dancing for Ezra. Of seducing him on stage and then dragging them back to whoever’s place is closer to follow through on that temptation. He thinks of how his leg aches, of the absolute agony he feels at knowing his time is running out. Of the hateful, spiteful, gleeful cruelty of Michael, rubbing that fact in. Of feeling so helpless, so hopeless. Of wishing he could be better, could be worth this man’s time. 

Why would Ezra- or anyone for that matter- want to waste their time with a dancer who can’t even dance? 

“It’s-“ Crowely tries again, and this time he can’t manage to lie. “Oh,  _ God,  _ Ezra, it hurts so much,” he sobs, head cradled in his other hand as the tears come once more. 

“Your knee,” Ezra breathes in understanding, “Oh, dear boy, no. I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley can’t say anything through the gut-wrenching sobs, so he doesn’t even try. He just wants to cry, he wants to cry until he’s empty, and then he wants to sleep for as long as he possibly can. 

“Where are you?” Ezra asks. Crowley doesn’t answer, and so he asks again, “Anthony, my dear, where are you? Are you safe?” 

“I’m-“ he hiccups, “Home.” 

“Do you want me to come over?” 

Crowley’s heart clenches in his chest at Ezra’s thoughtfulness. But he can’t ask that of a man he’s slept with once. “You don’t owe me anything, Ezra,” he says, “And I look like a mess.” 

“I couldn’t give a single  _ fuck _ what you look like, dear boy,” Ezra says hotly, and the curse shocks Crowley enough that for a moment his tears stop, “You are in pain, and very clearly upset, and if you don’t want my company I understand, but if you  _ do,  _ then tell me your address and I will be right there.” 

“You have a review-“ Crowley murmurs. 

“Oh, sod the review,” Ezra replies, impatiently, “You won’t hurt my feelings if you say no, but I need you to be honest: do you want to be alone?” 

“...No...” 

“Would you like me to come over?” 

_ “Please,”  _ he whimpers. 

“Then text me your address. I’m on my way.” 

The line goes dead at that, and Crowley sits for several moments, staring at his phone in disbelief before he wipes his eyes and nose on his sleeve, then texts his address to Ezra. He tells him where the spare key is hidden, and then proceeds to limp back to the bathroom to scrub his face and change into a different sweatshirt, one free of tears and mucus. 

He returns to bed, adjusts his leg, and rests his head against the headboard. Closing his eyes, he tries to breathe slowly; to calm himself down. Michael’s words keep coming back to his mind, and though he tries to push them out, they won’t leave him be.

After about twenty minutes of trying and failing to think of anything else, Crowley hears the squeak of his front door being opened. He hears the sound of plastic bags rustling, and a couple cautious footsteps on hardwood. “Hello?” Ezra’s voice calls out softly. 

“Back here,” Crowley calls, wiping his hands over his face one last time. A moment later, Ezra Fell appears in his doorway, and if it weren’t under such disastrous circumstances, Crowley would be positively giddy. 

As it stands, Ezra takes one look at him, tuts, and steps into the room. “Oh, you poor dear,” he whispers, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Crowley scoots a touch to ensure there’s room. Sitting, Ezra reaches up, lightly caressing his fingers over Crowley’s cheek. He wants to indulge in it, but the feeling of Michael’s hand on him surges to the forefront of his mind, and quickly he reaches up, takes Ezra’s hand in his, and lowers them to his lap where he occupies himself with tracing over Ezra’s knuckles. 

“Are you hungry?” Ezra asks softly, “I stopped by this little Vietnamese restaurant on the way here. I got two different types of Pho; only, I didn’t know if maybe you were a vegetarian, so I came prepared.” 

For the first time in a while, Crowley feels a smile curl the edges of his lips. “Not a vegetarian,” he says, “And Pho sounds great. You didn’t have to.” 

“Shush,” Ezra fusses, squeezing his hand, “None of that. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” 

With that he stands and moves out of the room. Crowley listens as the man rummages around his kitchen, and it’s so delightfully domestic that it makes his heart ache in a way that’s so much more pleasant than how it’s hurt all evening. 

While he listens, his phone rings. It’s Bea. He knows if he doesn’t answer it, they’ll assume the worst and show up, and then he’ll have a great deal more to explain, so he sighs and puts them on speaker. 

“Hey.” 

“You sound like shit.” 

“I’m on pain meds and I’ve cried like three times. Course I sound like shit.” 

“I’m coming over.” 

“No,” Crowley says quickly. 

“Don’t argue-“ 

“Bea, I’m fine,” Crowley says, trying to speak softly. “I have… someone else… here. Taking care of me.”

“Who?” Bea demands shrilly, though he knows they are more curious now than concerned. 

“Look, I can’t talk about it at the moment, but I  _ swear _ I will tell you later. I just… I can’t right now. Nothing’s wrong it’s just… I don’t know how much I can say yet.” 

“Cough if you’re being like, held hostage or something.” 

“I will call you tomorrow, Bea. Promise.” 

They sigh. “Fine.” After a pause, they add, “Eric is nowhere near as good as you.” 

That shouldn’t make him laugh, but his emotions are so twisted that he laughs anyway. “Well, these hips don’t lie.” 

“They better not,” Bea says, then goes quiet. “I’m worried about you.” 

Crowley sniffles. “Everything gone to shit. But for the moment I’m okay. Promise,” he says, “I’ll tell you more tomorrow.” 

“You better. Bye.” 

“Bye, bumble-Bea.” 

Crowely hangs up, then looks up to see Ezra enter with two bowls of pho on a baking sheet-turned-serving tray. “You don’t have anything else,” he explains as he sets the sheet down, “So this will have to do.” 

“It’s perfect,” Crowley says, accepting the bowl from Ezra. It’s warm in his hands and smells delicious. His stomach growls, and it’s only now that he realizes how hungry he actually is. “Thank you,” he says, before taking a bite. It tastes as wonderful as it smells, and the broth warms him from the inside out, making him already feel a little more energized. 

“You’re most welcome,” Ezra says, taking a prim bite from his own bowl, sighing contentedly. Crowley recalls a similar sound escaping him when he’d pressed his lips to his cock, and  _ that  _ is a thought he needs to will away, quickly. He’s in no state, physically or mentally, to try to initiate sex. 

Crowley eats about half the amount of pho that Ezra gave him, then sets the bowl aside, feeling better than he has all day. Once Ezra finishes, he moves the tray to the kitchen, then comes back and sits on the edge of the bed once more. Reaching out, he takes Crowley’s hand. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks gently, rubbing Crowley’s knuckles reassuringly. 

That’s the problem. Crowley  _ does  _ want to talk about it. But he’s afraid that Ezra won’t believe him. He’s afraid that he’ll come off as too fucked up, to complicated, and it’ll make Ezra about-face and rush the fuck out of Crowley’s flat and his life. 

He tells him as much. Ezra’s gaze narrows. 

“Why don’t you let me decide what I can and cannot handle,” he insists, and at that, Crowley can’t hold it back anymore. It’s too much, and he’s tired, and the weight of it all is crushing him. So he talks. He tells Ezra about the injury- which he knows about, since he’s referenced it in previous reviews- but he talks about the depression, the guilt, the fear. He talks about his comeback. He talks about the pain and how Michael loves to remind that he has nowhere else to go. He tells Ezra about that afternoon, about how she’d mocked him, denied him permission to perform, and made it clear that her renewing his contract was an act of extreme grace on her part. About how she’d grabbed him and sneered in his face, almost gleeful in his misery; gleeful that she knows she has the power to seal his fate as a dancer. Because she’s right. He’s high risk. And no company is going to take him on if he’s let go for being unable to fulfill his contract. He has to stay, and he has to be grateful for the opportunity. But  _ god,  _ if he doesn’t feel miserable for it. 

When he finishes, he looks up, meeting Ezra’s gaze for the first time since he started speaking, and is shocked to see the other man is in tears. 

“Off the record,” Crowley adds weakly, an attempt to lighten the horribly distressing mood he brought them both to. 

Ezra doesn’t laugh. “That’s  _ abuse,”  _ Ezra says simply, venom dripping from his words. “And she’s  _ wrong.”  _

Crowley scoffs, “She made it very clear the only reason I’m still around is because I sell tickets. For now. And despite the risk, she’s letting me stay, especially after your review of  _ Sins.”  _ He sniffles, “She called you my guardian angel. And she’s right.” 

“A poor job I’ve done, then,” Aziraphale hisses, more to himself than anything. Then he looks up at Crowley, brow furrowed in alarm. “You said your contract is up for renewal,” he says, “Have you signed?” 

Crowley shakes his head. “Not yet. It’s in my bag-“ 

Ezra is off the bed and out of the room before Crowley can fully comprehend he’s gone. The man returns a moment later with the bag, and with Crowley’s nod, he unzips it, pulling out the folder. He moves to sit beside Crowley now, back pressed against the headboard. Crowley shifts to make sure he has room, and then leans against Ezra’s shoulder to look at it. 

They read it together. It’s a standard contract, and from what Crowley can tell, there’s nothing sinister to it, or at least, nothing  _ more  _ sinister than the average contract. Ezra looks at him. “Are you going to sign this?” 

Crowley looks from the contract to Ezra, then back down. “What choice have I got, if I want to dance?” Crowley says helplessly, then huffs, “Assuming I come back from this at all.” 

“You will,” Ezra says as if it’s already a done deal, “But, my dear boy… I have outed directors for far less than what you claim she’s done! How can you think that’s worth it?” 

“Because no one else wants me!” Crowely declares helplessly, “I’m past my prime, Ezra! I’m a thirty-eight year old dancer with a shit knee. She’s  _ right.  _ No one in their right mind will want me.” 

“That is simply not true,” Ezra says softly, resting his hand on Crowley’s left knee. “Can I tell you a secret, Anthony?” He asks, glancing at the dancer. 

Crowley winces. “Call me Crowley?” He asks. “Everyone else does.  _ She  _ insists on calling me Anthony.” 

Ezra nods. “May I tell you a secret,  _ Crowley?”  _

“Sure.” 

Turning, Ezra lifts his hand. “May I?” He asks, letting his hand hover over Crowley's cheek. Hesitantly, Crowley nods. Resting his palm there, Ezra’s thumb gently brushes over Crowley’s cheek, and he leans close. “You,” he whispers, “Are valuable, and worthy, regardless of whether or not you can dance.” 

Crowley’s eyes widen, and a sob slips from him. 

“You are right,” Ezra continues, “You’re not a young dancer anymore. And you can’t treat your body the way you did when you were a teenager. You’re still strong, you’re still capable, but there’s also no shame in establishing some limits to protect this beautiful vessel of emotion and expression. You don’t deserve to be treated this way, my dear. And unless you ever give me permission, I won’t say anything, but you can’t keep torturing yourself because of that wretched woman’s lies. There are  _ plenty  _ of companies that would love to have you, and if they’re foolish enough  _ not  _ to want you,” he pauses, shrugs, “Well, then who's to say you can’t start your own?” 

Crowley doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure if there’s anything  _ to  _ say. A part of him wants to thank Ezra for believing in him. Another part wants to argue, insist he’s wrong and that Crowley deserves everything he’s gotten. But he also  _ wants  _ Ezra’s words to be true. He wants to feel good about dancing again. He loves dancing with Bea. Loves taking Dagon’s choreography and breathing life into it. He loves moving, loves being on the stage. But he hates Michael; hates how worthless she makes him feel. Hates that his body can’t keep up with her harsh demands. 

He doesn’t know how to respond; he doesn’t know what to think. So he simply leans forward and kisses Ezra instead. 

It’s soft, chaste. He’s not looking to escalate things- his knee hurts too much and he’s still woozy from the pain medicine- but he needs to kiss Ezra, to use his body to express himself since words so often fail him. So he kisses him, and he keeps kissing him, soft and desperate and needy, until finally Ezra pulls away to catch a much-needed breath. 

While Crowley regains his own breath, he watches Ezra, whose gaze is soft and loving and full of understanding. The light from the hallway hits the back of his head, making his white-blond curls shine like a halo, and Michael’s words come back to him about  _ guardian angels  _ and  _ friends in relevant places _ . 

“You barely know me,” Crowley murmurs, moving to cup Ezra’s face the way Ezra is holding him, “Why are you so… why are you being so kind to me?” 

Ezra offers him a soft smile, and turns his head to kiss his palm. Wordlessly he moves away, bending down to untie his shoes. Next he removes his coat, vest, bow tie, and dress shirt. When he’s only in his slacks and undershirt, he moves back to the bed, and Crowley lifts the covers to allow him under. Ezra wraps an arm around Crowley’s shoulder, and the other man curls against him, careful of his knee. 

“Because,” Ezra says at length, clearly having used the time he spent undressing as a means to put his thoughts in some kind of order, “You deserve nothing less.” 

He feels Crowley’s breath hitch, a full body jerk as he’s hit by the intensity of those words. “I have had the privilege of watching you dance for years, my dear,” he says softly, then confesses, “And you have captivated me since the beginning. I used to pride myself on not having favorites, on viewing each dancer and each performance as objectively as possible. But you… when you did that phenomenal all-male  _ Swan Lake… _ I couldn’t help myself: I dreamt of being the prince… I wanted to be the one dancing with you so badly I couldn’t stand it. I realized then that you were so much more to me than just a performer and… and I was afraid of how  _ ridiculous  _ that was. So I tried to ignore it. Smother any ridiculous notions I might have entertained. It wouldn’t have been professional. And then  _ you  _ reached out to  _ me… _ ” 

“I would read your reviews,” Crowley murmurs against him, “Even ones that had nothing to do with me, and I would close my eyes and imagine you… telling me… those things. Always felt like an idiot for it.” 

“Then we are in good company, I think,” Ezra says with a smile. “And perhaps not so foolish as we once thought we were.” 

“I still feel like an idiot,” Crowley sighs, lifting a hand to wipe his eyes. “I wanted to dance for you Wednesday.  _ So much.  _ I wanted to really show off… seduce you right on that stage and then come back here and finish the job, but-“ he sighs and glares at his knee. 

“You just focus on taking care of yourself,” Ezra says, “Not that I wouldn’t have loved being seduced by you on stage. There will be time for that. But for now, I want you to rest.” His free hand comes down to take Crowley’s hand, squeezing it affectionately, “And, call me greedy, but I’m rather enjoying having you all to myself- ignoring the _reason_ _why_ we’re here, of course.” 

The thought of Ezra wanting him in general is astounding. The thought of Ezra wanting him for himself is even more appealing. “Be as greedy as you like,” Crowley says, unable to suppress a grin. “You won’t hear me complaining.” 

“Well,” says Ezra, “As selfish as I’d like to be and keep you up to talk more, you need rest.” He ignores Crowley’s grumbling protests as he begins to smooth out the covers and adjust pillows. “Get some sleep, dear one, and we can continue this in the morning.” 

“Are you going to stay?” Crowley asks, hoping beyond hope that Ezra says yes.

“If you like.”

“I do,” says Crowley.

“Then I’ll stay for as long as you’ll let me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Grandma in Mulan voice* would you like to stay forever?! 
> 
> Part IV: Ezra can’t hide his happiness from Anathema; Crowley and Ezra get to know one another better; and Bea learns more than they bargained for.


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra can’t hide his happiness from Anathema; Crowley and Ezra get to know one another better; and Bea learns more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been hectic today but I finally have a few minutes to get this chapter posted. Enjoy!

* * *

**Part IV**

  
Ezra Fell stares at his phone, grinning like a complete idiot, unable to convince himself that last night had actually happened. He’d slept with Anthony Crowley. And the proof is right here, in his hands: a text conversation in which he and Anthony have made plans to see each other again, this Wednesday. Anthony wants to see him again. Him! 

Ezra thinks back to the night before, to the moment he’d looked up from his work to see a shock of red hair standing in line at The Wall- and the jolt of fear and adrenaline that had shot through him at the realization that he was but a couple meters away from Anthony Crowley. He recalls the urge to hide- to bury his face into his laptop and pretend to be oblivious to the world around him. Then Anathema’s words echo in his mind like an unwanted song that gets stuck in one’s head, and though he doesn’t put any stock in her tarot card readings, Ezra can’t help but realize that he’s gone from having  _ no  _ encounters with Anthony Crowley to having two unexpected ones in a week’s time. Try as he might, he  _ can’t  _ deny the curiosity of them crossing paths again so soon after that initial conversation. 

_ It’s ineffable,  _ he thinks in amusement. 

So he takes a chance. And Anthony had been receptive to his invitation. And surprisingly enough, things had gone well. So well that, mere hours after property meeting one another, they’d fallen into bed together, their mutual attraction undeniable. And all those thoughts Ezra has harbored about being unattractive to someone like Anthony Crowley, of not being his type… well, they’re laughably wrong now. 

The initial shock of waking up alone had been unpleasant. For a moment Ezra had convinced himself he’d had a lovely, far too realistic dream, until he’d noticed the note on the pillow beside him. It had taken every ounce of control not to grab his phone, call Anthony, and exclaim that, “Yes! I would  _ love  _ to have this be an ongoing occurrence.” 

But he doesn’t want to come off as desperate, so he waits. 

Until he simply couldn’t anymore. 

And now he stares at his phone, giddy and lovestruck at the thought of Anthony calling last night  _ terrific.  _ At the fact that Anthony made sure to leave his number so Ezra could reach out to him. At the fact that he  _ wants  _ Ezra to reach out to him again. 

Ezra wants it to. More than he has ever wanted anything, he wants another night with Anthony Crowley. He wants as many nights as Anthony will give him. 

“You okay?” 

Jumping in absolute surprise, Ezra snaps his phone shut and looks up to see Anathema staring down at him, her usual smug and knowing expression replaced by one of genuine concern. 

“Perfect!” Ezra squeaks, red-faced. He squeezes his phone in his hand and leans back away from Anathema, using his free hand to absently adjust his keyboard and mouse. “How are you today?” 

“Fine,” Anathema says, unconvinced, but lets the matter go. “I have some interviews in a couple hours. Thought I’d grab lunch first. Wanna join me?” 

“You’re not meeting your young man today?” Ezra asks even as he stands, pocketing his phone and pushing in his desk chair. 

“Nah,” Anathema shrugs, “We’re still keeping things casual right now. And anyway, he’s at some meeting. Apparently he’s got to explain how he managed to break the library’s brand new computer three days after they purchased it.”

“Oh dear,” Ezra grimaces, “I do not envy him right now.” 

“Me neither,” Anathema laughs, “Anyway. Come on. My treat.” 

—

They settle in at a nearby sushi restaurant. They chat easily about Anathema’s next article, about the upcoming fundraiser Ezra is attending, and general office gossip until finally Ezra can’t take it anymore and pulls out his phone. 

“Can you keep a secret?” He asks. Anathema gives him a dry, unimpressed look. Wordlessly he opens up the text chain and hands it to her. 

Curious, she bends her head to read, pushing her glasses up her nose as she squints at the tiny font. A good several seconds pass, leaving Ezra completely on edge as he waits for her reaction. He adjusts his waistcoat, watching her all the while, waiting for her reaction. He knows when she figures it out because Anathema gasps, head shooting up to look at him with an agape jaw and eyes even more comically round than they appear behind the thick glass of her lenses. 

“You’re  _ kidding!”  _ She exclaims, clutching the phone to her as excited as if the messages had been for her. 

Unable to help himself, Ezra grins wide, feeling silly and elated and shockingly happy. “I’m not.” 

“You took my advice and got laid!” Anathema laughs, looking down to reread the messages, “By Anthony Crowley no-“ 

“Keep your voice down!” Ezra shushes her, reaching for the phone only for Anathema to pull it away from his grasp in true schoolgirl-like fashion. Ezra pouts.

“You have to tell me  _ everything.” _

“I would prefer to keep the more… sordid… details private, my dear.” 

Grinning, Anathema wiggles her brows at Ezra. “You got  _ sordid  _ with Anthony Crowley, you absolute  _ fiend!  _ I have never been more proud of you.” 

“I didn’t  _ intend  _ to sleep with him, you know.” 

Anathema rolls her eyes. “What? You just happened to cross paths, trip over each other, and fall onto his dick?” 

“You don’t have to be so crude,” Ezra grouses, “But  _ no.  _ We happened to be at The Wall at the same time. I invited him to sit with me as there were no other tables open. We talked. I invited him back to my place. We drank some wine. And then, well…” he trails off, but his grin says more than any words could. 

“Got  _ sordid,”  _ Anathema contributes gleefully anyway. 

“Oh, do stop saying it like that!” He complains, but he’s still smiling, still delighted, and not anywhere near as annoyed as he’s putting on. 

“You started it,” she remarks teasingly, then stops, grins, and leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “And I was right.” 

“Oh, do let’s not start this.” 

“But I  _ was.  _ Or, rather, the cards were.” 

“You have an interview to get to,” Ezra reminds her, holding his hand out for his phone, motioning impatiently for her to hand it back to him. She stares at him, unmoving. Ezra sighs. “Yes, fine. Your reading was admittedly quite timely.” 

“That’s all I get?” She asks incredulously as she holds out the phone, “For helping you find the man of your dreams?”

Ezra snatches his phone back from her and pockets it. “I’m quite certain  _ I  _ did all the work in that regard,” he says with a sniff, “In fact, my efforts were considered  _ terrific.”  _

Anathema laughs, and Ezra can’t help but feel ridiculously satisfied. 

—

The rest of his day carries on without incident. Several times Ezra toys with the idea of texting Anthony, but then thinks better of it. Best not to come off as too desperate or clingy, so soon into… whatever this is. 

He goes on, and does his best not to think about the fact that at any moment he can reach into his pocket and send a message to the one person he’s always so longed to talk to. He wants to know everything about Anthony Crowley. He wants to be entrusted with all the secrets of his heart, his desires, his fears. He wants to be a part of Anthony’s life. He knows it’s far too soon for anything like that- he knows he’s going far too fast and such recklessness will only cause them to crash and burn. And he doesn’t want that. Not by a long shot. Best to take it slow; keep some distance. 

But then he gets the message saying Anthony won’t be dancing Wednesday, and any worry about speed and distance flies out the metaphorical window as Ezra calls Anthony, already knowing what’s wrong before the man even answers. 

He races to Anthony’s side. They talk; share parts of themselves that Ezra knows probably weren’t meant to be shared so soon. They don’t know each other. Except… well, now they do. Anthony-  _ Crowley,  _ he requests Ezra call him- opens up about his feelings of worthlessness. Ezra knows all too well about that. He’s long since dealt with his own issues- therapy is a costly but wonderful thing- and while he still has moments, he knows his worth now. 

And he knows Crowley’s. 

Crowley is worth  _ so much.  _ He’s worth  _ everything.  _ And Ezra will find a way to prove as much. 

So Ezra does as he promised he would; he stays. Sleep won’t come to him- he finds himself unable to sleep most nights- and so he slips out of bed long enough to grab his laptop, then returns to begin working on his review. He isn’t certain how heavy a sleeper Crowley is, but then he recalls that Crowley is also on pain medicine and is most likely dead to the world. Even still, he turns down the brightness of his laptop screen and angles it so that it’s not shining on Crowley’s face. 

He starts to type, to outline his thoughts on the production he’d witnessed a couple hours ago, but finds himself unable to produce the words. Instead he glances over to Crowley, who’s brow is less furrowed now that he’s free from the waking pain and dismay at his current professional predicament. He's stunningly beautiful. As lovely as he’s always been on stage, decked out in stage makeup and those devilishly revealing tights, he’s even more lovely now. Ezra feels himself nearly breathless at the thought of being so close to the person he’s desired for so long, and he gently reaches out, brushing his fingers through red hair that’s fallen over Crowley’s cheek. Crowley stirs, and Ezra jerks his hand away, but he does not wake. 

Sighing in relief, Ezra decides to leave him be, and purposely rests his hand back on the keyboard of his computer. But his gaze remains on Crowley. 

Crowley: the dancer whom Ezra has long been inspired by. The performer that has besotted and seduced him time and again on the stage with his riveting performances. Crowley, the man that is awkward and sweet and who seems just as smitten with Ezra as he is with him. 

Crowley, who is weighed down by so much stress and uncertainty as he deals with the very real possibility that his career may be over sooner than he’d like. Crowley, who is trying to put on a brave face anyway. 

Crowley, who Ezra is certain he could very easily fall in love with, if he’s not halfway there already. 

}-{

Crowley wakes up to the sound of clacking on a keyboard. He feels tired, but not so heavy and groggy as when he is under the influence of pain medication. His leg feels better already, though he’s well aware that doing anything much more than limping to the bathroom and back will undo all the work his body did overnight healing itself. The clacking continues and after a moment Crowley realizes that it’s coming from directly beside him, and then suddenly he recalls everything that happened yesterday and takes a breath. 

The clacking stops.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Or rather good nearly-afternoon, I should say.”

Crowley groans and rolls over, slowly shifting into a sitting position. Ezra is exactly where he left him- right by his side. Only now he’s busily typing away on that comically ancient laptop. His hair is a little mused and his undershirt is wrinkled but he’s as handsome as ever. Sitting on the edge of his nose are a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that should probably make him look a bit silly, but in Crowley‘s eyes the man is nothing short of beautiful.

“What time is it?” He asks as he rubs the palms of his hands against his eyes trying to wipe away the last vestiges of drowsiness.

“Nearly noon,” Ezra says as he continues to type. After a moment he clicks something on the screen with the trackpad and then closes the laptop. After he sets it aside he turns to look at Crowley. “Your body clearly needed the rest,” he says as he leans close and presses a kiss to Crowley‘s temple. “And I certainly can’t blame you. Between the physical and emotional toll you went through yesterday, I honestly expected you to sleep longer.” He then smiles a little sheepishly and adds sweetly, “But I’m very pleased to see you.”

“I’m pleased to see you too,” Crowley whispers, far too giddy so soon after waking up to do anything about the stupid, lovesick smile that spreads across his lips. Yesterday had been truly terrible, and his future is still uncertain. But in this moment, for the first time in a long time, he isn’t worried or stressed or afraid. His focus is entirely on Ezra Fell, and as strange as it seems, all feels right in the world.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Ezra says as he moves to stand up, busying himself with tidying up, “But I made myself at home. I got a bit peckish earlier and had one of your protein bars, and used your French press to make coffee. Your plants are  _ beautiful,  _ by the way.” 

“Thanks,” Crowley tries not to preen under the praise; he fails. “And I don’t mind at all.” Shifting, Crowley twists in his spot, sighing as his back pops in a series of sharp  _ cracks.  _ Ezra grimaces, but says nothing. “After what you did for me last night, you can make yourself at home as much as you want.” He blinks and then suddenly it hits him that it’s  _ nearly noon  _ on a  _ Tuesday.  _

“Wait. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Ezra shakes his head and tosses the clothes Crowley discarded the day before toward the small basket on the other side of the room. “Called in. Told my boss I’d have my review submitted in time. He was surprisingly understanding.” 

“He was?” Crowley asks, curious as to what there is to be understanding about. 

“Oh, yes,” Ezra says with a wave of his hand, “Little bout of food poisoning. Nothing alarming.” 

Crowley can’t help but laugh. “You lied?” 

“Well, I didn’t think it would be wise to tell him that the man I’ve just started seeing had a very serious injury and I’m taking off to play nursemaid,” he smirks in the most charming way possible, “I’d be afraid he’d tell me to keep my  _ kinks _ to myself.” 

Crowley stares for a moment, aghast, then bursts out laughing. It feels good, and he sees Ezra wiggle his shoulders, clearly pleased to have gotten such a reaction. 

Once Crowley sobers, he moves to the edge of the bed and carefully moves his legs over. Ezra says nothing, but waits close by, and offers his arm when Crowley hisses in pain. “Toilet?” Ezra asks. Crowley nods, stopping at his wardrobe to pull out fresh underwear, yoga pants, another oversized sweater, and his knee brace. 

Ezra leaves Crowley to relieve himself, wash his face, brush his teeth, and put on some deodorant. He changes carefully, and once he’s finished, he feels much better. Crowley hobbles to the kitchen where Ezra, now fully dressed and buttoned up to perfection, is cleaning up, and chooses not to put up a fight over that. Let the man help; it’s what he wanted to do, so Crowley lets him. He moves to the sofa, a black, leather monstrosity that’s too big for the room but had been free from a friend who moved several years back, and eases down onto it. He silently works his knee in some basic exercises and stretches, gritting his teeth all the while. There’s no way he would have been able to dance Wednesday, even if Michael had let him. Maybe she accidentally did him a kindness. 

Ezra disappears to the bedroom and comes back with his laptop. He places it next to Crowley’s on the kitchen table and works quietly for a few minutes before, at last, he shuts it again with a contented sigh. “Submitted,” He says, then moves to sit beside Crowley. “Do you need anything?” He asks, watching as Crowley works. 

“M’okay,” he grunts, then stops, knowing there’s a balance between exercising his knee and doing further damage, and opts to let himself rest. “Not gonna be dancing for a bit, though.” 

”I know you miss it,” Ezra agrees, then reaches up and removes his glasses. He folds them, then unfolds them, and then repeats that several more times before finally speaking up, “What you told me last night deeply troubles me,” he says at length, “I don’t like how you’re being treated, and I  _ despise  _ that what I wrote is being used against you in such a way. I wanted to  _ celebrate  _ you, my dear,” he reaches out, taking Crowley’s hand, “Not put you in a position to be further demeaned by that wretched woman.” 

“You didn’t know,” Crowley sighs, squeezing Ezra’s hand, “You…” he stops, sighs, then leans down to press a kiss to Ezra’s knuckles, “No one has ever spoken about me like that. No matter how Michael wants to twist things… she can’t turn your words against you.”

“She’s trying,” Ezra huffs bitterly. 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to remind me otherwise,” Crowley says, the invitation wide open. He’s not medicated now, and his leg will certainly limit what he can do, but he wants this. It’s not out of some desperate need to forget his troubles- though he certainly has troubles, and he certainly wants to forget about them- but this is for him. Just because he can have it. Because, if the look Ezra is giving him is any indicator, he wants to give it. 

It feels so good to be wanted. 

Sliding closer, Ezra wraps an arm around Crowley and presses their lips together. Crowely melts at the touch, at the feel of Ezra’s lips against his own, at the warmth radiating off him, which wraps around Crowley’s chilled body and settles, molten hot, in his core. 

“Ezra,” he groans, reaching out to pull the other man closer-

_ Knock! Knock! Knock!  _

_ “Crowley?!”  _

Ezra jerks back, and Crowley falls back against the armrest, groaning in utter disappointment. “Fuck!” 

_ “Crowley if you don’t open the door I’m going to come in anyway!”  _

Crowley looks at Ezra. “Bea,” he says, sitting up and willing his erection to go away, “Zelbub. If you don’t want them to know about us, I understand.” 

“Do you want them to know?” 

“I haven’t told them, but… they know someone was here. And I… wanted to tell them. But I haven’t yet.”

_ “Crowley, I swear to each and every god that exists I will-“  _

Ezra stands and moves to the door, unlocking it and opening it wide, barely missing being knocked in the nose from where they’d been about to pound on the door again. 

“Really, my dear, you’ll disturb the entire building if you keep that up,” he says as if this were a perfectly normal scenario, “Do come in.” 

Bea stares. It’s not often they’re speechless, but they are, and they step inside, looking instantly to the couch where Crowley is sitting, leg propped up and a red throw bundled up over his lap. 

“Hey, bumble-Bea.” 

Bea stares at Crowley, then looks back at Ezra, who smiles and wiggles his fingers at them in the dorkiest wave that makes Crowley want nothing more than to slam him against the nearest wall and demand those fingers do something  _ else.  _

“What,” Bea finally finds their words, “And I cannot stress this enough,  _ the FUCK?!” _

Crowley motions for Ezra to come sit beside him, and he can’t help the way his heart flutters in his chest when Ezra does just that. “Well,” Crowley says, clearing his throat, “You were wondering why I was off yesterday?” He gestures to Ezra with his thumb. “He’s why.” 

Bea stares, mouth agape. “You called him,” they say. 

“Yep.”

“After I told you not to.” 

“Yep.” 

“You called him,” Bea repeats, and then shrieks, “And then what?  _ Fucked him?!” _

“To be fair,” Ezra speaks up, “There was an unplanned rendezvous at a little cafe, and then we went back to my place for some wine and a chat, and then, yes,” he says, surprisingly straight-faced, “ _ That.”  _

Slack-jawed, Bea steps over to the IKEA coffee table and sinks down onto it. They turn their head to Crowley, “You mother fucker,” they say, and despite the shock, they’re grinning, “I cannot even begin to fucking believe you.” 

“What?” Crowley huffs, “It’s not like I make a habit of sleeping with critics,” his eyes widen and he turns to Ezra, “I don’t, by the way,” he informs him. 

Ezra laughs. “I never thought you did, my dear.” 

Suddenly, Bea gasps. “Hang on,” they say, standing up and pacing to the kitchen and then back- just a handful of steps- “Is he why you were so adamant about dancing Wednesday?” 

The reminder that he  _ won’t  _ be dancing stings, but Crowley takes comfort that Ezra only seems to care about that to the extent that it means Crowley is hurt. “Yeah,” Crowley admits, “He was gonna come watch the show.” He glances at Ezra and sighs. “Best laid plans…” 

“It’s alright, my dear.” 

“I see,” Bea says, moving back to sit across from him, careful of his leg, “So that’s why you were so upset.”

“I mean. That’s not the  _ only  _ reason,” Crowley grumbles, pressing his back against Ezra in a silent request for comfort. Ezra wordlessly presses him closer. 

“What else happened yesterday,” Bea asks, “With Michael?” 

Crowley shrugs, waving away the question. “She was her usual, bitchy self,” 

“She didn’t… threaten not to renew your contract, did she?” 

Unable to help himself, Crowley huffs bitterly. “Oh no, she didn’t threaten not to renew it. In fact, she took great pride in reminding me that I’m lucky she’s even willing to renew it at all, because of-“ he gestures to his leg. 

“What a fucking load of utter horse shit,” Bea snarls. 

“I concur,” Ezra agrees, “Though perhaps not so crudely.” 

Bea snorts, smirking at Ezra before turning their gaze back to Crowley. “I should give her a piece of my mind.” 

“Please don’t,” Crowley groans, “I just want to put this behind me, and move on.”

For a moment Bea looks as if they want to argue, but after a pleading look from Crowley, drops it with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll find another excuse to cuss her out.” 

The conversation changes then, and Bea hounds Ezra with questions regarding his intent with Crowley, causing the redhead to sink down lower into the couch cushions, covering his face in embarrassment. Ezra takes it all in stride, and by the time Bea leaves to get back to the studio, they and Ezra are laughing as if they’ve been friends for years. 

“I’ll see you out, my dear,” Ezra says, standing to walk them to the door. 

He opens it for Bea, and they step out, then whirl around, and softly say, “I’ve been his partner for years. Yesterday was the worst I’ve ever seen him.”

“Ms. St. Clair was cruel,” Ezra whispers, “Unbearably so. I’m not a violent man but last night made me question that choice.” 

“Is he going to sign the contract?” Bea asks. 

“I don’t know,” Ezra admits with a sigh, “I personally hope he doesn’t. He deserves better. No dancer deserves the treatment he’s received. But ultimately, it’s up to him and I don’t want to overstep. Especially so soon into…” he isn’t sure what to call this thing himself and Crowley, so he lets the sentence hang, let’s them read into it as they will. 

“But you’ll support him?” Bea asks, eyeing him carefully, “Whatever he chooses?” 

“I will.” 

They nod, letting his answer sink in, then turn away. “Well, now that you’re fucking, you can keep the lovey-dovey shit in the bedroom. That review was  _ gross.”  _

“But it was accurate, was it not?” 

They make a face. “Doesn’t matter. It was gross. Probably a violation of ethics. Not that  _ I  _ care.”

“I assure you that I can have amorous relations with Crowley and still write objective critiques of his performances.” 

Bea gives him an unbelieving look. “You sure about that? ‘Cause I’m not so sure about that.” 

Ezra has the grace to blush. “I shall endeavor to keep myself in check.” 

“Good.” 

Bea leaves, and Ezra shuts the door. He returns to the couch where Crowley’s gaze follows him the whole way, and sits down. 

“They know now. Obviously. I assume you’re okay with that,” Crowley points out. 

Ezra nods, laughing softly as he explains, “I was so delighted I almost immediately told my friend Anathema yesterday. I know I should have asked first, but-“ 

“You were delighted?” Crowley asks, a small smile spreading across his lips. 

“Of course I was,” Ezra remarks simply, “I’m  _ still  _ delighted, my dear.” 

“Any interest in showing me how much?” Crowley asks, tossing the red throw back over the couch in a clear invitation for him to come closer. 

Ezra laughs, then closes the distance between them. 

—

The day carries on in simple, domestic fashion. After Ezra ravishes Crowley, the dancer begrudgingly rests while Ezra heats up the remaining pho, and they enjoy a late lunch together on the couch. Crowley opts against taking his pain meds until later, claiming he’d rather be awake to enjoy the time he has with Ezra. To that end, they curl up together and talk, making an effort to get to know one another beyond their careers as a dancer and a dance critic. 

Though, Crowley can’t help but wonder: “How does one become a dance critic, anyway?” 

Ezra presses a kiss to his cheek- there’s been a great many questions posed, followed by kisses as the other formulates their answer. Neither can find any reason to complain. 

“Well,” Ezra muses, fingers trailing up and down Crowley’s arm absently. It’s so soft, so gentle, and Crowley can’t help but sink into the embrace, loving how warm and safe and loved he feels. 

He blinks at that. He doesn’t know if this is love. At least, he’s not sure if it is on Ezra’s part. He’s fairly certain he fell in love the moment Ezra offered to let him sit at that table with him. He tries to set aside  _ that  _ revelation, and listen as Ezra speaks.

“I actually studied ballet, when I was a boy,” Ezra begins, “My parents assumed I’d start, realize I was no good, and quit. It would be a humbling experience, so I overheard them say. But it quickly became apparent that I was  _ good  _ at it. Enough that I won competitions. Had a promising future at a very prestigious dance academy. But my parents… they patronized the arts because it’s what those with money do, but to have their  _ son _ be a  _ danseur?  _ It would have been disgraceful.” 

“So what happened?” 

“I applied to get a dance scholarship to university. I didn’t get it. Partially because my family’s income was too high. When I told my father I needed money, he refused to pay unless I went to school for something practical. He said he’d indulged my ridiculousness for long enough, but it was time I got serious.” 

“How cruel,” Crowley gasps. 

“I needed the money, so I agreed. I double majored in journalism and business. But I minored in dance. He never knew. I performed a few minor roles. But I knew nothing would come of it at that point, especially because I’d gained weight by then, and despite strides that have been made, people can still be unkind to dancers with… differing body shapes. So I stopped auditioning, after a while. Eventually saw an ad for an arts and theatre columnist at the  _ Observer  _ and decided that if I couldn’t dance, I’d make a living watching and writing about it.” 

“I can’t believe you were a dancer, too,” Crowley muses, studying Ezra’s face, “I never knew… I bet you were amazing.” 

Ezra smiles. “I don’t talk about it much,” he says, “But I passed muster.” 

Crowley’s eyes widen then. “So when you said you fantasized about us dancing together-“ 

“Oh, I very much meant it, yes.” 

“And- holy shit… we could-“ 

“Well,” Ezra pats his front. He does have a bit of a stomach, but that’s never meant much to Crowley, who has only ever thought him beautiful. “Once upon a time, perhaps. But I  _ could have.”  _

“That is,” Crowley stares at Ezra,  _ “Really  _ fucking hot.” Leaning close, he kisses Ezra, who seems just as thrilled at the thought of them in a  _ pas de deux _ . Moving to kiss down his throat, as best he can while Ezra is so buttoned up, Crowley murmurs, “Did you ever touch yourself?” He asks, undoing the bow tie and throwing it over his head onto the floor, “Thinking about us, dancing together?” 

Groaning, Ezra shifts so Crowley is on his back, careful to keep his leg propped up. He undoes his vest. “That would have been unprofessional, improper, and-“ 

Crowley cups his erection in his hand and squeezes, “And,  _ oh, yes,  _ I did,” Ezra confesses breathlessly, “I brought myself to completion more than once thinking of how  _ divine _ it would feel to have you in my arms like that, to dance with you, to-“ he stops short, groaning as Crowley manages to unzip his trousers and slides his hand beneath the waistband of Ezra’s pants to take his cock in hand. “Oh,  _ darling.”  _

At that he stands, causing Crowley to have no choice but to let go of him. For a moment he worries he’s done something wrong, but before he can apologize, Ezra leans down, whispers, “Tell me if I hurt you,” and then with a surprising amount of ease, lifts Crowley into his arms. 

The dancer’s arms wind around Ezra’s neck and he looks at the other man with lust-darkened eyes. “How is  _ everything  _ you do so stupidly  _ hot?”  _ He asks, full of wonder, then seals their lips together, not giving Ezra an opportunity to answer. 

He deposits Crowley on the bed as if he were made of glass. Stepping back, he begins to remove the rest of his clothing, and Crowley follows suit. He has fewer things to divest, and is nude much quicker than Ezra. In a brazen display, Crowley takes hold of his cock, and slowly begins to stroke himself, watching with satisfaction as Ezra doubles his efforts to join him. 

Once he’s naked, Ezra joins Crowley on the bed, and captures his lips in a seering, desperate kiss. “What do you prefer?” Ezra asks as he kisses his way down Crowley’s chest, latching onto one nipple with his teeth while rolling the other between thumb and forefinger. Crowley hisses in pleasure. 

“If it’s with you?  _ Anything.”  _

That answer makes Ezra hum in satisfaction, and the sound vibrates against where he’s laving Crowley’s nipple with his tongue, causing the other man to writhe in a moment of unabashed pleasure. 

Releasing him, Ezra moves back up to kiss Crowley. “I feel much the same,” he says, “I enjoy both giving and receiving, but I think, in the interest of taking care of you-“ his hand slides down Crowley’s right leg, squeezing his thigh, “We should let you rest here this time around, and I’ll ride you?” 

Crowley groans, eyes nearly crossing and his hips jerking at the thought.  _ “Yes.”  _ His hands slide down to clutch Ezra’s arse, and jerks him closer, relishing the gasp that slips from Ezra’s lips. “But only if I get to open you up. Can’t have you doing  _ all  _ the work.” 

Crowley directs Ezra to grab the bottle of lube, then they adjust to a position where Crowley can press a slick finger inside him while still keeping his leg relaxed. He works slowly, taking his time opening Ezra up for him, stroking him with one finger for an agonizingly long while before adding a second. Ezra whines and moans in pleasure as Crowley crooks his fingers inside him, drawing out a choked moan that makes the dancer crazy. 

Finally, Crowley shifts, and guides Ezra to slowly sink down onto his cock. He moves slowly, and when he’s fully seated on him, Ezra lets out the most satisfied sigh. 

“You feel  _ wonderful,”  _ he breathes, then begins to move, slowly at first, payback for Crowley’s tortuous teasing from before. Crowley revels in it, and clutches Ezra’s hips, letting the other man set the pace, and loving every moment of it. 

“So do you,” Crowley sighs. “Absolutely perfect, angel.” 

Ezra smiles, then continues moving, lifting up, then slowly dropping back down, each movement making Crowley mad for more. His back arches in pleasure, and he reaches up, tugging one of Ezra’s hands to grip his hair.  _ “Please,” _ he gasps, sighing in relief when he feels a sharp tug that stings his scalp. Crowley’s hand falls back to Ezra’s thigh and squeezes.

“Oh, Crowley,” Ezra gasps, picking up the pace as he grows closer to his own climax, “Touch me, please!” 

That desperate command sends a jolt of arousal through Crowley, and he can’t help but use his hold on Ezra’s thigh and hip to snap his hips upward sharply, drawing out a broken moan from the blond’s lips. Then, he obeys that gloriously given command and grips Ezra’s cock, smearing the precum leaking from the tip over him and stroking at a matching pace to Ezra’s own thrusts, which succeeds in driving him over the edge. He cums hard, spilling over Crowley’s stomach, and it’s so delicious, so mesmerizing that Crowley instantly follows behind him, the force of it drawing out a startled shout. 

Breathing hard, Ezra slips off him, and then carefully lays down beside Crowley, hand pressed to his chest as he catches his breath. Likewise, Crowley is breathless, and as he pants, he turns his head to look at Ezra, who is watching him with equal delight and exhaustion. 

“Wow,” Crowley finally manages to breathe, and Ezra laughs sweetly. 

“I concur.” He takes a moment more, then sits up. “I don’t know about you,” Ezra says, “But I would  _ love _ a shower.” 

Crowley glances down at himself and smirks. “Think I just had one.” 

Lightly, Ezra smacks his good leg. “Oh, don’t be crude,” he fusses, but he’s smiling, which fills Crowley’s heart with almost as much joy as he’d felt when Ezra had sank down on his cock. “I meant a  _ proper _ shower. With water. And soap.” 

Crowley nods and sits up. “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

“And seeing as you need to be careful with your leg,” Ezra remarks, and the look on his face is something Crowley can only describe as mischievous, and he  _ loves  _ it, “I wonder if perhaps you might want some… assistance?” 

Carefully, Crowley sits up, then scoots closer to Ezra and pulls him close for a kiss. They smile against each other’s lips, and Crowley murmurs, “I would  _ love _ some assistance.”

—

True to his offer, Ezra helps clean Crowley then, after he washes himself off, he sinks to his knees, gently moves Crowley’s right leg over his shoulder to keep the weight off it, and then sucks Crowley off. Crowley hauls him up after, kissing him hungrily, and brings him off once more with his hand. 

They eventually exit the shower and dress, and while Crowley insists on ordering them some food, Ezra offers to change Crowley’s sheets. Dinner is delivered half an hour later, and they talk and flirt while enjoying Chinese take away. Once dinner is finished, Ezra insists on cleaning up, and then settles Crowley back in bed. Crowley gripes as Ezra tucks him in. “I’m not a  _ child,” _ he insists. 

“Then stop pouting like one,” Ezra teases, laughing when Crowley petulantly sticks his tongue out at him. “Stop that,” he grouses, then sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. “I don’t want to,” he says softly, and instantly the happiness Crowley has felt all day bursts like a bubble, “But I need to go home tonight.” 

Crowley nods. “Yeah, no. ‘Course. Can’t expect you to stay here forever.” 

A pained expression passes over Ezra’s face at that. He sighs and looks down. “You can text me, of course. I don’t promise to answer quickly; I’m not much for it, but I will happily make an exception for you. And, if you like, I can come back tomorrow night.” 

Crowley stares at his hands and sighs, trying not to feel angry. It’s not Ezra he’s upset with, of course, but this whole situation. “You don’t have to babysit me,” Crowley murmurs. “You didn’t sign up for any of this shit when you invited me to your place.” 

Ezra huffs, indignantly. “I’m not babysitting you,” he spits out the word like it’s an insult, then scoots closer and takes Crowley’s face gently in his hands, “And I want to sign up for this. If you’ll let me.” 

Despite his best efforts, Crowley feels tears start to form. He tries to look away, but Ezra keeps him there, leaning forward to kiss just under his eyes, catching one of the tears on his lips. 

“You do?” 

Ezra nods. “I have admired you from afar for so long,” he whispers, “Now I wish to discover all of you. Your favorite color, your favorite songs. I want to listen to you and laugh with you and support you. I want to tell you about how much I hate my boss, and laugh at all the crude and offensive names you come up with to describe him. I want to sit up at night working on articles while you sleep next to me, and I want to fuss at you for using my kitchen counter as a makeshift barre. I want to take you out for dinner, and for you to meet my friend Anathema. I want to write reviews of your performances and then drag you to bed and give you a much more thorough understanding of just how much I enjoy seeing you dance.”

“You want all that?” Crowley asks, hand lifting to wrap around Ezra’s wrist, fingers lightly stroking the soft flesh just beneath his palm. 

“I do,” Ezra breathes, “But I also want you to be happy. So if that isn’t what you want-“ 

Crowley leans forward and kisses him to silence him. “I want it all,” he whispers against Ezra’s lips. “Everything you said. I want it. I want it so fucking much-“ he cuts himself off in favor of kissing Ezra again, and with that understanding between them, they don’t bother parting for a long while, content to continue as they are. 

Finally, Ezra releases him and stands up. “If I don’t go now,” he says, and Crowley notices he is a bit pink in the cheeks and breathless, “I won’t go. And I need to.” 

“Go on,” Crowley waves him away, feeling oddly alright this time around. “I’m going to take some medicine and pass out. I’ll be fine. Promise.” 

“If you need me,” Ezra offers, leaving the invitation open. 

“I’ll let you know,” Crowley promises. “Go on, angel. I’m good. Great, even. How could I not be when I know I’m gonna see you tomorrow?” 

He watches as Ezra smiles sweetly, then he steps forward and kisses Crowley once more. It’s quite intense for a goodbye kiss, and Crowley has half a mind to try and tempt him to stay. But he knows Ezra has a life outside him, and so with great reluctance he breaks the kiss, pleased when he sees Ezra instinctively chase after him. Crowley surrenders and lets his lips be captured once more, wrapping his arms around Ezra’s shoulders as he feels the bed dip with the weight of Ezra’s knee pressing into it. 

Half an hour later, Ezra finally leaves, and Crowley can’t even find it in him to be upset that he’s gone, not with how his lips feel swollen; not with the promise echoing in his mind that Ezra will be back tomorrow. 

Crowley grabs his pain meds and takes half the dose. To distract himself from the sudden loneliness and to keep him busy until the drowsiness kicks in, he texts Bea to see how things are going. When they text back, asking if he’s alright, he’s able to say, with a shocking amount of confidence: 

**Crowley:** _ I’m fucking terrific.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part V: Crowley and Bea have a chat; Ezra and Crowley continue developing their relationship. Crowley debates on what he wants.


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Bea have a chat; Ezra and Crowley continue developing their relationship. Crowley debates on what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudos! They seriously brighten up my day! 
> 
> Enjoy Part V!

* * *

**Part V**

  
Despite his good cheer last night, Crowley wakes Wednesday morning feeling far more melancholic than he’d expected. The only thing that manages to make him smile is a text from Ezra, wishing him a good morning, reminding him he can text if he needs anything, and a question of what Crowley would like for dinner that evening. 

He shoots back a quick reply: 

**Crowley:** _ Looking forward to seeing you; I’m not a picky eater. Would you fuss if I asked for something horribly greasy and unhealthy?  _

Half an hour later, Crowley’s phone buzzes. 

**Ezra:** _ Perhaps one of the most important things to know about me is thus: I am what some people disdainfully call a “foodie”. So, if you want ‘greasy and unhealthy’ food, I guarantee that I can provide the absolute best in London for you, my dear.  _

It’s so insignificant, in some ways. They barely know each other, though circumstances have certainly thrown them together in recent days. But to have such an easy conversation, to know that no matter what else happens today, he’s going to see Ezra Fell at the end of it- it makes everything else durable. He’s going to ask that wonderful man how his day was. Ezra is going to tell him about the uninteresting things he did, and Crowley is going to eat up every word. Crowley will say something ridiculous in response, and Ezra will laugh at him. Will smile at him. 

**Crowley:** _ So you’re a dance critic who used to dance ballet, you’re a foodie, you live above a historic bookshop, and you collect old books and enjoy expensive wine. How are you SO fascinating?!  _

A few minutes pass, and then:

**Ezra:** _I’ve been called many things because of my interests, but never fascinating._

Crowley frowns at that. That simply won’t do. 

**Crowley:** _ Well you are. Incredibly so. Handsome and fascinating.  _

**Ezra:** _ I have been told one can make a heart using symbols on one’s phone, but I am rubbish at technology, so consider this me sending you the aforementioned heart. And if I may be so bold,  _ _ I think you are quite stunningly beautiful.  _

**Crowley:** _ be as bold as you like. It’s hot.  _

**Crowley:** _ <3  _

**Ezra:** _ That’s it! I should have known you would know. Thank you.  _

**Crowley:** _ Anything for you <3  _

Crowley pauses, thumbs drumming against the edges of his phone as he debates on his next text, then decides to go for it, if only for a laugh. 

**Crowley:** _ I can make a dick too.  _

Fifteen minutes pass. Then: 

**Ezra:** _ I refuse to believe that.  _

**Crowley:** _ oh ye of little faith  _

**Crowley:** _ 8===D ~ _

**Crowley:** _ one guess as to what the ~ is ;-)  _

**Ezra:** _...I shall never doubt you again.  _

**Ezra:** _ And yes. I’m certain I know what that little squiggle represents. How very naughty!  _

**Ezra:** _ Must run now. Meeting about to begin. You’re going to have to teach me how to make those little pictures. I would ask Anathema, but I don’t think I could bear the teasing that would come from my asking her to show me how to make the little… penis squiggle.  _

**Crowley:** _ oh I’ll be happy to show you how to make my dick squiggle. ;-) _

Grinning, Crowley sets his phone aside, shocked at how much better he feels just from a simple, silly conversation with Ezra. It’s ridiculous, how fast he’s falling for him, but Crowley knows that even if he  _ could _ help it, he wouldn’t want to. 

Deciding to get up and start his day, Crowley slides out of bed carefully. He needs to exercise his knee, test it out and see how it feels. He gets up, performs his morning ablutions, then changes. He stretches while he waits for his toast and coffee, then continues to stretch on the kitchen floor while he eats. When he’s done, he hobbles around, tidying up the kitchen, looking after his plants, and makes up his bed. 

His leg is sore by the end of it all, so he grabs his laptop, intending to go rest on the couch. He turns, and spots his contract lying on the ground. Pausing, he bends down to pick it up, staring at it as if it were written in a foreign language. 

He’d been so desperate a week ago to have this opportunity. Two more years guaranteed. He’d danced with desperation that first night, knowing that Ezra Fell would be there, would review the show, and that if one bad thing had been said about him- “the show is good, but Anthony Crowley was the weakest link”- Michael would have used that as the perfect reason to not renew his contract. But as it stands, he has it. He’s got two more years in his hands; guaranteed employment. The ability to dance. It’s all he’s ever wanted. 

So why is he uncertain about whether to sign the damn thing? 

Michael aside, he loves Morningstar. But Michael is the director, and so she calls the shots. She can make his tenure a pleasant one, or a miserable one. And ever since she took over, it’s been miserable. Why is he so desperate to stay in a place where he so clearly isn’t wanted? 

_ That’s not true, _ he tells himself as he sits on the bed, careful of his knee.  _ Bea wants you there. Dagon does. You get along with the others. It’s just Michael. _

Crowley isn’t sure if the trade-off is worth it. 

Sighing, he goes to the couch, dropping the contract on the coffee table, unsigned. He picks up his phone to text Bea, pausing and smiling when he sees a reply from Ezra: 

**Ezra:** _ You are a menace, and I have not been able to focus on anything all morning except you and your… well.  _

**Crowley:** _ i promise to behave the rest of the day.  _

**Crowley:** _ but I can’t say the same for tonight ;-)  _

**Ezra:** _ And there goes my concentration for the rest of the day.  _

**Crowley:** _ my work here is done. See you tonight <3  _

Crowley laughs and lets the conversation end at that. He knows Ezra has work to do, and doesn’t want to keep him from it. Too much. The problem is, he’s horrifically bored. He feels restless, knowing he should be up and dancing, but his knee is not about to let that happen. So he sinks onto the couch and glares at the ceiling, thinking about Ezra, Bea, and his future at Morningstar. By lunchtime, Crowley has wavered back and forth about three times on what he wants to do regarding the contract, and is ready to scream from not being able to do much of anything else. Right as he entertains the notion of burying his face in the ugly striped pillow behind him and screaming until his throat is raw, he hears a noise outside his door and after a moment sees Bea walk in. 

“You don’t have to spend your lunch with me,” Crowley says dryly, feeling annoyed that they are here and also grateful that they care enough to come. He hates being pitied; he hates feeling helpless. 

“Who else am I gonna spend it with?” They ask sharply, making themself at home in the kitchen, pulling out a plate and placing their deli wrap and fruit medley on it before snatching a fork from the drying rack. They move to sit across from him on the couch. “Not like anyone is ever on time coming back from lunch anyway. They’ll live.” Bea takes a bite of melon, then stabs another piece and holds it out for Crowley. “Want some?” 

Crowley waves them off. “No thanks.” 

They shrug and eat it. 

“So,” Bea says once they swallow, “I don’t see loverboy here.” 

“Ezra is at work,” Crowley says simply. Despite himself, he feels his cheeks begin to burn, and he takes a moment to ponder why. He’s not ashamed of what happened; far from it. And Ezra hadn’t had any complaints about letting Bea in on their...arrangement. Or whatever it is. Crowley isn’t entirely certain. He knows from last night Ezra is interested in seeing this through to whatever end it may come to; he’s determined to make this work. Crowley thinks maybe  _ that’s _ the heart of the issue: he can’t believe anyone- let alone someone as distinguished and intelligent and handsome as Ezra Fell- might want him. Crowley hasn’t had very many relationships. He hasn’t had time, not when his entire focus has been on his career. But now, sitting with his leg propped up and his career hanging in a delicate balance, he can’t help but imagine the things Ezra said he wanted last night. Not only can he  _ imagine  _ them, but they don’t feel like a fantasy. They feel like a very real possibility that he need only reach out and take. 

Maybe  _ that’s _ why he’s blushing. Because suddenly the concept of having a “loverboy” is no longer a fever dream. It’s a reality. And a wonderful one at that. His gaze flickers over to his phone, where he and Ezra have spent the morning teasing and flirting with one another. Unable to help himself, Crowley grins. “But he’s coming by after.” 

“I still can’t believe you called him,” Bea remarks idly, but there’s an edge of annoyance in her voice. “What on earth were you thinking?” 

Crowley laughs at the question. It’s a helpless sort of sound, driven from a place of utter disbelief that a simple phone call could lead to the foundations of the most important thing that’s ever happened to him. “Not sure I was,” he admits after a moment, “But- and no offense, Bea- I’m glad I didn’t listen to you.” 

Bea huffs. “Yeah, well. I guess I’m glad, too. Idiot.” 

Crowley smirks, then leans his head against the back of the couch. He feels restless, like he could crawl out of his own skin, though he knows he needs to be careful so this mishap can be over with. Gently, he adjusts his leg from where it’s been in the same position for so long. “So,” he asks, “How was last night?” 

Bea gives him a wary look. “Crowley…” 

“I’m a big boy,” he replies with a touch more annoyance than he means to, “It’s not like I haven’t had to miss a performance before. I can handle it. How was it?” 

“It was fine,” they say after a moment, “Eric is good, but he’s not you. I think he feels a bit overwhelmed, and so it gives the piece a more ‘innocent virgin succumbing to lust for the first time’ vibe than anything. Not a  _ bad _ interpretation,” they shrug, “But the role wasn’t choreographed for him, so...” They trail off at that, and give him a look of resignation. 

“How about your piece?” 

“Oh, I was fucking  _ fantastic,” _ Bea says with an ease that suggests they truly believe it, “Fucking angriest I’ve been in a while, so, you know… I channeled that shit into my performance. Which,  _ fuck,”  _ they laugh, “That sounds like something a fucking therapist would say. Damn it!” 

“I’m pretty sure we  _ all _ need fucking therapy,” Crowley remarks dryly, then gestures to his knee, “Though between  _ this _ kind and  _ that _ kind… not sure which is worse.” 

“Well when your fucking leg is broken at least you can’t focus on all your demons because of the pain,” Bea snarks. Crowley laughs at that. 

“Getting laid also helps.” 

“Gross,” Bea gags, throwing a grape at him from the remains of their fruit salad. It hits his chest, and he grabs it before it falls to the floor and pops it into his mouth with a shit-eating grin. “I don’t want to fucking know what you and the critic got up to,” they gripe, then blink, suddenly wide-eyed and nervous, “Oh,  _ shit, _ did you-  _ on the couch!?”  _ They look ready to leap off the thing if Crowley confirms their suspicion, but as hilarious as that would be, he decides not to agitate them further. He knows they’d never do it on purpose, but his knee is still fragile, and he worries that in retribution he might end up worse off than he currently is. 

“No, not on the couch,” he sighs, “At least, not  _ that.  _ He carried me to bed, though.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Bea gags again. 

“Am I supposed to find that charming?” They ask, clearly not charmed. 

“It was  _ really _ fucking  _ hot,”  _ Crowley says, “Picked me up like I weighed nothing.” 

“Ugh,” they grimace, then the act drops and they look at him seriously. “You really like him,” they say, and it’s not a question. 

“I do,” Crowley says breathlessly, “I really, really do. He’s amazing, Bea.” 

“So long as you’re happy,” they say, giving him an intense look. They’ve always been protective of Crowley, and while he doesn’t think he needs protecting from Ezra, he appreciates the devotion all the same.” 

“For the first time in a while, I am.” 

They nod, then look away, noticing the contract on the table. It isn’t as flat and smooth as when Michael had originally handed it to him, and Bea reaches out and flips through the first couple pages. “Signed it yet?” They look at him curiously. 

Wordlessly, Crowley shakes his head. 

“You gonna?” 

“Yeah,” he says automatically, “Just can’t find a pen anywhere in this dump.” 

Bea gives him a look; it’s the kind of look that they often get when they clearly have an opinion they want to share but, thanks to years of sharp elbows to the ribs by both Crowley and Dagon, have trained them to be more cautious in their speech. Sometimes. Occasionally. 

Their mouth opens to speak, but their phone beeps, and they look down with a sigh. “Gotta get back,” they say, taking the last bite of their wrap and moving to the kitchen. They rinse off the plate and put it on the rack to dry, then move back to the couch. “Need anything before I go?” 

Crowley shakes his head and holds out a hand for Bea to clasp. They do, smacking his hand just a touch too hard for comfort, and squeeze him with the rough sort of affection that is typical of Bea. “I’ll be ‘round Friday,” Crowley says as he lets them go. “For PT.” 

“I’ll be on the lookout for you,” they promise, then move toward the door. “Call if you need something.” 

“Promise.” 

Bea vanishes and once more the flat descends into silence. It’s almost deafening. Crowley growls and slides down the couch until he’s flat on his back, and stares up at the ceiling. In his mind he can hear the music of  _ Lust _ , and he closes his eyes, running through the choreography in his mind, arms lifting into the air to make the movements as he rocks his head back and forth on the warm leather cushion. He hums the melody, soft and haunting, intense and sensual, and makes hand gestures to match the movements he can see so clearly in his mind. The dance quickly sours his thoughts and he flips through his mental repertoire until he thinks about  _ Swan Lake.  _ The remark Ezra had made the night before about seeing him perform, wishing to be the one dancing with him… Crowley can scarcely comprehend the thought that someone might  _ long _ for him. It’s unreal, unfathomable. And yet, he’d been told just last night that the strange sort of need to reach out to Ezra had been matched by Ezra’s long restrained desire to reach out to him. To think, he’d craved Ezra as much as Ezra had craved him. It’s so ridiculous, so comical. 

It’s incredible. 

—

Crowley putters about for the rest of the day, willing away the minutes until the evening. Finally, mercifully, after what feels like an eternity, Ezra texts that he is on his way, and Crowley limps to the loo to freshen up. He shaves, washes his face and moisturizes, and spritzes on a touch of cologne. He throws his hair up into an elegantly disheveled bun, and then slips on a pair of nicer shorts and a form fitting t-shirt, because he’s going for  _ appealing _ but worries that he might be coming off as  _ desperate.  _ He decides he doesn’t really care. 

He returns to the couch, quickly trying to straighten things up from where he’s lazed about all day, and then sits down. He looks at himself and frowns, then shifts, trying to find a satisfying balance between looking seductive and looking relaxed, and realizes with a groan that considering he has to be careful how he positions his leg, his options are severely limited. With a defeated sigh, Crowley simply gives up and shifts so that he’s solely comfortable. “Whatever,” he grouses, determined to be irritable about his predicament until he hears the door unlock and swing open. 

All thoughts of trying to look comfortable, or seductive, or anything else fly out of his mind as he watches Ezra Fell enter his apartment, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He looks tired, Crowley notices instantly, but his eyes still sparkle with that same genuine cheer that seems to radiate off him in waves. He’s dressed similarly as he always is - Crowley has seen a few headshots of him in the past, and the man seems to wear tartan bow ties and a waistcoat like it’s a uniform. This bow tie is a cream and brown tartan, with a small stripe of red scattered throughout. It’s utterly captivating. 

At that point, Crowley realizes he’s been staring, and he blushes furiously when he simultaneously realizes that Ezra is  _ aware _ that he’d been staring. Suddenly bashful, Crowley glances away, looking at the TV across from him as if there were something playing of any interest. At the doorway, Ezra chuckles. 

“I must say, I’m quite pleased to cause this reaction,” he teases, placing a bag of takeout on the counter. He moves over to the couch and upon his approach, Crowley turns to look up at him. His cheeks still burn, and they only burn hotter when Ezra rests a warm hand on the back of his head and leans down over the couch to greet Crowley with a proper kiss. He melts instantly at the touch, sighing and feeling at ease for the first time in hours. “Shut up,” Crowley grumbles, pulling Ezra down for another kiss. He feels the other man smile against his lips, indulge him for a moment, then pull away. Crowley uses every ounce of willpower to keep from pouting. 

“Are you hungry?” Ezra asks as he steps away, but Crowley is able to catch a last-second glimpse at the way Ezra’s own cheeks are stained red, of his kiss-swollen lips curled up in a lovestruck sort of smile. Crowley isn’t the only one affected here, and that reality has him reeling. 

“Sure,” Crowely says. He isn’t a foodie, the way Ezra apparently is. He rarely pays attention to the food he eats, so long as it gives him the energy to dance for hours at a time, he’s willing to eat it. That said, the food Ezra is pulling out of a large, greasy, paper bag smells absolutely amazing. Once the food is plated, Ezra places the plates on the table, then gives Crowley an expectant look. Carefully, he rises, and moves over to the table to sit down. It feels good to be off the couch, to move, even a little, and he knows that tomorrow he’s going to have to try to be more diligent about not lazing about and letting the forlorn feeling that is settling heavily in his chest weigh him down until he’s an undignified mass stuck on the couch. 

“Now,” Ezra says as he takes a seat, placing a fork and knife beside Crowley’s plate and regripping his own in each hand, “I’m not usually one for burgers. I’m not fond of eating with my hands,” he waves the fork and knife in front of him, “Messy business, really. But, these are the best burgers in Soho, and I figured that would satisfy your desire to indulge in something ‘greasy and unhealthy’.” 

“It’s perfect,” Crowley says, taking a bite. And it is. The burger is juicy, cooked medium, and seasoned with just enough salt and pepper. The cheese is melty and rich, and the spicy aioli is offset by the cool, crisp lettuce and tomato. It really is the best burger Crowley has ever eaten. 

Then he hears a soft moan from across the table, and Crowley’s eyes snap up as he watches Ezra take a bite of his own burger. That sound does something to Crowley, sending a white hot jolt of desire through him and making him hungry for something other than a burger. But Ezra went through all this trouble; Crowley clears his throat and asks, choking a bit, “What foods do you like then, if you’re not partial to burgers?”

“Well,” Ezra says, looking positively ridiculous sitting there eating a hamburger with a knife and fork. He dabs his mouth with a napkin, then drapes it primly on his lap. Crowley tries not to let his eyes wander. “I am quite fond of sushi. And I do enjoy a good steak. And there’s this restaurant outside London that makes this exquisite lamb with red wine sauce. They pair it with boiled potatoes in a butter-thyme gravy that is simply to die for!” 

Crowley arches a brow. “Are they hiring a food critic at the  _ Observer?”  _ He asks, amused, “Because you’d be great.” 

“Oh  _ ha ha,” _ Ezra responds dryly, cutting off another piece of hamburger and taking a bite. He makes another small sound of approval, and Crowley has to look away from how fucking erotic is is watching this man eat. Ezra, seemingly oblivious, continues, “Though to be fair, we  _ just _ hired a new food critic. The previous one was  _ atrocious _ at his job! He reviewed this pompous little restaurant and gave them a top rating. I went-  _ twice, _ I might add- and both times their chicken was dry, their bread was undercooked, and I’m certain they thought they were being cute when they boasted that their signature dish was a roasted duck with chocolate sauce-” 

Crowley looks back at Ezra with a look of disgust. Ezra laughs. 

“Oh, trust me my dear- I’ve had it before, and when done well, it is quite a delicious dish. But I’m positive they simply took a bottle of Hershey’s sauce and drizzled it over an overcooked slab of duck meat and then charged forty pounds for it! It was awful!” 

“So he got fired for being a shit food critic?” Crowley guesses. 

“Oh, goodness no,” Ezra huffs, “He was fired because they found pornography on his work computer.” 

Crowley blanches. “Oh, shit.” 

Ezra shrugs, and makes the movement look positively elegant. “Yes well, he was also homophobic, so good ridance.” 

Crowley lifts his glass of water. “Good riddance.” Smiling sweetly, Ezra lifts his own glass of water, tapping it against Crowley’s. “So,” Crowley asks, startled by just how simple this is. How domestic, how banal, (how  _ sensual!?) _ . It’s everything he’s ever wanted. “How was your day? Besides creepy porno-watching food critics getting fired?” 

“Oh, that happened a couple weeks ago,” Ezra says, “They actually hired someone new the other day. Raven Sable. Apparently  _ very _ knowledgeable about food.” 

“Bet you're better,” Crowley says simply, glancing at Ezra’s mouth. The way he elegantly eats. The sounds he makes when something meets with his approval. God, the man has turned eating into a fucking piece of erotica, and Crowley isn’t certain the man even knows. 

Ezra smiles sweetly. “That’s sweet of you to say, but I doubt that.”

“Nah,” Crowley argues, “You’re better. Jus’ a fact.” 

“I think you might be a touch biased,” Ezra replies, but if the little wiggle that accompanies his words is any indicator, he’s quite pleased at Crowley’s assessment. 

“Well, that makes two of us,” Crowley says, leaning forward to smirk at Ezra, “At least in regards to each other.” 

Leaning forward to match is posture, Ezra grins. “I am most certainly biased toward you,” he says, then winks, “Off the record, of course.” 

“Of course,” Crowley grins, and his heart soars, a flying leap across the stage of his chest, and he feels almost dizzy from the heights he thinks he has soared to. 

—

Eager to be of some use, and to keep from being too lazy, Crowley helps clean up, moving carefully as he does so. Ezra takes his bag to Crowley’s bedroom then returns, having brought out a bottle of wine and two carefully wrapped wine glasses. He pours them each a glass, then sits beside Crowley, easing the dancer’s legs onto his lap, and gently laying his hand on Crowley’s shin. 

Conversation flows as easily as the wine, and before long the two of them are laughing merrily as Ezra shares stories about his job, from his overbearing and pompous boss to his dear friend and colleague Anathema. He tells him about the tarot reading, and how he’s dreading the inevitable day when the two of them meet because she will insist on giving him a reading too. 

As they talk, Ezra’s hand gently caresses Crowley’s leg in a soothing motion, and Crowley finds himself growing increasingly distracted by the feeling of those soft, plump fingers on his skin. It feels lovey, relaxing. As Ezra recalls another anecdote about his boss, Crowley settles comfortably against the couch, which has honestly never seemed this comfortable before. Leaning his head against the back cushion, he closes his eyes, listening as Ezra talks, that posh, lovely voice washing over him and making him feel perfectly at ease. 

After a moment, the hand on his leg stops moving and Ezra stops talking. “Am I boring you, my dear?” 

Crowley’s eyes snap open, ready to assure Ezra that  _ no,  _ the last thing he’s doing is being boring. But then he notices the knowing smirk on the man’s face.  _ Bastard _ . He relaxes. “No,” Crowley says anyway, nodding with his head to where Ezra’s hand is. “Just feels… good.” 

The hand on his leg begins gently moving again. “Have you been in much pain today?” 

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Not as much. Uncomfortable. Feel restless and twitchy mostly. Wishing I were on stage right now.”

Ezra offers him a sympathetic look. “It would have been lovely to watch you perform,” he agrees, “But you shouldn’t beat yourself up over it, my dear. You’ll be back to it in no time, and just as incredible as you’ve always been.” 

“Certainly hope so,” Crowley sighs, settling back against the couch and watching as Ezra’s fingers trail over his leg. Crowley breathes deeply, and lets out a long, slow exhale. 

In return, Ezra watches him, curious and concerned. Eventually Crowley lifts his eyes to meet Ezra’s, and is momentarily stunned by how blue they are. By how beautiful Ezra is. Crowley watches him, cheek pressed against the back of the couch, and feels a delighted sort of shiver trail over him when Ezra doesn’t look away. 

“You seem melancholy,” Ezra acknowledges after a while, “I do so hate to see you like this, my dear. Is there something you’d like to do to take your mind off things?” 

Crowely is certain the invitation is not inherently sexual. Ezra seems to have no qualms about making his desires known, especially after their playful conversation that morning, so Crowley understands that Ezra means anything. They could fuck. They could just as easily talk about the best and worst restaurants in London. He could ask Ezra to find a book and read to him. All of that actually sounds appealing. But for the moment, Crowley can think of only one thing he wants above all others. Something he’s been unable to stop thinking about since the very idea was conceived. 

“Dance with me.” 

Ezra starts. “What? My dear, I don’t think-“ 

“I can stand,” Crowley insists, “And you can hold me. Not the same as a  _ pas de deux, _ but it’s a start. Come on, angel. Dance with me?” 

Ezra glances down to Crowley’s knee, then back up at Crowley. He looks uncertain, like he knows this is a bad idea but can’t resist the temptation. 

“One dance,” Ezra says, “Then you’re getting off your leg.” 

“Deal.”

Crowley opens his laptop and selects a soft, melodic song for them to sway to. It’s not from a ballet, but it’s lovely and the string quartet blends beautifully to create a romantic atmosphere. Ezra helps Crowley stand, then they move to the kitchen where there’s a bit more room. Crowley wraps his arms around Ezra’s shoulders and tries not to moan when he feels Ezra’s arms slide around his waist, pulling them close so that Ezra is mostly holding him up. They sway lightly, neither sure where to look or what to say, and so they merely cling tightly to the other and rock back and forth in Crowley’s kitchen. It calls to mind awkward high schoolers at their first dance, but it doesn’t diminish the appeal. Crowley likes that he can be awkward with someone and know that even at his worst, they won’t mind. He’s spent so long trying to be cool, suave, graceful and elegant, that it’s actually kind of nice to be able to let Ezra hold him up and know that even if his knee is messed up, Ezra doesn’t think less of him. 

“Crowley?” Ezra asks as the song ends and another begins to play. This one is a little more upbeat, but they keep their slow, lazy back-and-forth. Crowely hums from where his head is resting on Ezra’s shoulder, letting him know he’s listening. 

“I’ve noticed,” he begins cautiously, “That you’ve referred to me as  _ angel  _ a few times.” Crowley’s eyes snap open and he feels a sudden twist in his gut of embarrassment. “I certainly enjoy the term of endearment,” he says, and all at once Crowley feels stupid for thinking Ezra would ever judge him for something like that, “But I confess I’m curious about why you chose a term that was used so snidely by your boss?” 

“Because,” Crowley says, raising up and leaning back so he can look at Ezra properly. Their slight swaying stops. “Like it or not, she’s right. You’ve apparently been looking out for me for a long time. And your words have always been a comfort. Whenever I would feel worthless, I’d remember that somewhere out there, you saw me and thought there was something worthwhile. And this last review quite literally gave me that contract sitting in there,” he says nodding with his head toward the coffee table. “So, you’re my angel.” He laughs nervously and glances away. “Is that stupid?” 

A sniffle draws his attention back to Ezra’s gaze, and he’s shocked and dismayed to see the blond is in tears. “Oh, shit,” Crowley gasps, “No, don’t cry! I’m sorry-“ 

His words are cut off by a kiss, soft and warm and full of something Crowley wants to call  _ love _ but doesn’t want to get his hopes up just yet. When Ezra breaks the kiss after several long seconds, he’s still crying, but he’s equally smiling. “It’s anything but stupid,” he declares, “And it makes me feel as if  _ I’m  _ not being stupid for-“ he stops and takes a shaking breath. Crowley presses closer. 

“For what?” 

Ezra looks at him, eyes wide and full of fear, but equally full of- “For feeling the way I do.” 

“And how do you feel?” Asks Crowley softly, searching Ezra’s gaze for any sort of clue, though he has his suspicion. His hope. 

“I’m terrified to say,” Ezra confesses, “For fear that I’ll make an utter fool of myself.” 

Crowley nods in understanding, and decides to be the one who risks making a fool of himself. He wants to hear what he’s certain Ezra wants to say, but if he needs to say it first… “Would it help if I told you that I think I’m falling in love with you?” 

Now that the words are out, for a brief, terrifying moment, Crowley’s heart feels as if it’s stopped, and he worries it won’t start again. He watches in abject terror as his words register with Ezra. Watches as the uncertainty in his eyes vanishes, and is replaced with a mix of shock and joy and… relief. Then the world falls from beneath Crowley’s feet, and suddenly he’s flying, spinning around his kitchen, laughter drowning out the music. 

“Oh,  _ my dearest,”  _ Ezra says through his tearful laughter, “I feel the same!” He spins Crowley around once more, then lowers him back to the ground. Careless, Crowley puts too much weight on his right leg and hisses when his knee twinges. Before Ezra can pull away to fuss over him, Crowley yanks them backwards a step and spins, so that Ezra is pressed against the wall and Crowley is leaning his full weight against him. 

“Are you-“ Ezra tries to ask between heated kisses that Crowley is pressing to his lips. One arm squeezes around his waist to keep him upright, while the other slides down to grab his arse, squeezing and pulling him closer. 

“I’m  _ perfect,”  _ Crowley responds as he attacks Ezra’s bow tie, pulling it off and tossing it away, “What use do I have for legs when I feel like I can fucking fly?” 

—

When Crowley wakes the next morning he’s sore in all the best places. It’s enough to momentarily make him forget about his knee, and for a brief and shining moment, all is right in the world. Even when his knee starts twinging, he can’t be too upset, because he has a litany of bruises along his thighs, and he can hear a soft humming from the kitchen. The smell of coffee wafts into the bedroom and, lured by the promise of caffeine and the sight of his lover- and his heart leaps in his chest at that thought- he gets up, reapplies his knee brace, and goes to the kitchen. 

Ezra is dressed like he usually is- crisp white dress shirt, khaki pants and waistcoat, and bow tie. This one is green, tan, and gold, and when Ezra turns to greet Crowley, he swears he sees those same colors reflected in the blond’s eyes. 

“Good morning, darling,” Ezra says. Crowley steps forward carefully. They kiss quickly, Crowley not interested in Ezra being subjected to his morning breath, and then turns to grab coffee. 

They discuss their plans for the day. Crowley has nothing much planned beyond some stretching and resting, but Ezra has an event that evening, and so he won’t be able to come by. “But,” he promises, “If you like I can come tomorrow morning and escort you to therapy?” 

Crowley waves him off. “I’m not due till eleven,” he says, “We can see each other after. You’ve already uprooted your life enough this week for me.” 

“And I’ve done so happily,” Ezra reminds him, “So stop that.” 

Saluting, Crowley responds, “Yes’sir.” 

Huffing, Ezra rolls his eyes. “You are a  _ fiend,”  _ he says as he packs up his belongings, but it’s said with such affection that Crowley thinks he’d be happy to be called a  _ fiend  _ for the rest of his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh a semi-love confession. Not a straight up “I love you” but definitely a major thing to reveal.  
> —  
> The food critic who got fired is Sandalphon.  
> —  
> Your eyes aren’t deceiving you. This fic is now 8 chapters. I had an idea for a sequel of sorts that I was going to post after finishing this fic, but upon doing my 30th reread/edit, I realized that I didn’t like how there were so many sort of unresolved things between part 6 and part 7 (the epilogue). The idea for the sequel introduced and resolved a lot of those issues, and allowed for a slight change I wanted to make in the epilogue that absolutely needed setup prior to the reveal for it to feel worth it. So the sequel was condensed a bit, and is now going to be part of this story, rather than it’s own fic, and we now have 8 chapters!   
> —  
> Part VI: Crowley shows up for physical therapy. After overhearing a private conversation, Crowley has an important decision to make. Ezra gets a lead on a very important story.


	6. Part VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley shows up for physical therapy. After overhearing a private conversation, Crowley has an important decision to make. Ezra gets a lead on a very important story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for your lovely comments on the previous chapter! I’m so pleased you’re enjoying this fic! I had a blast writing it, and I can’t wait for you to see what happens next!

* * *

**Part VI**

  
Ezra exits the theatre with the sigh of a man who wants nothing more than to be able to instantly fall into bed and go to sleep. He doubts that sleep will come easily, even as tired as he is. It rarely does these days, though it’s never been something he feels he’s particularly gotten the hang of. There are always so many things to do; so much research, so many books to read and reviews to write. He has a half-finished analysis of Tchaikovosky’s ballets written up in a notebook that sits on his desk at his flat, taunting him with the possibility of being published. 

Stifling a yawn, Ezra makes his way down the street, slipping past the Soho night crowd who are off to begin their evenings. Ezra, for one, is glad his evening is over. The fundraiser is something he cares about a great deal: his inherited wealth isn’t going to much else, and he likes to support the arts where he can; to give the kind of support he was denied as a young, up-and-coming dancer. But the triviality of it all seems to have rubbed him the wrong way this evening. Normally he can stomach the awful small talk with fellow investors and patrons, though he is more inclined to speak to the poor, overworked dance students they so often drag to these sort of things in an attempt to charm investors to hand out cheques with a plethora of zeros. 

Pulling out his pocket watch, Ezra sees that it’s about half past eleven. Far too late to bother Crowley. The poor dear needs his rest. Ezra stops; smiles. A bachelorette party bumps into him but pushes past with little notice, and he shakes his head, forcing himself to keep walking and not stand around like the besotted fool he is. 

Crowley cares for him. Him! The forty-something, out of shape, wannabe dancer who had to resort to writing critiques of performances rather than actually be in them. It’s astounding, Ezra thinks as he nears his flat. They hardly know one another- a mantra that keeps playing in his head over and over like some kind of warning sign. But the thing is… he _does_ know Crowley. And Crowley knows him. Perhaps not as completely as some people may know their significant others, but there’s time for that. This mutual attraction and admiration has gone on for far longer than either of them could have ever believed, and Ezra is also a firm believer that one can always get a glimpse of a person’s heart when watching them perform. One can’t pour oneself into such demanding roles without staining the edges with a little of one's own colors. 

He’s long seen that beauty, that passion, in the roles Crowley performs. He’s managed to take those unspeakable moments that can only be expressed through the movement of one’s body and put words to them, to express to those not fortunate enough to see. And in all that time, despite the distance and the unavoidable fact that they really only just met- they _understand_ one another. 

And that is a dreadfully frightening and profoundly wonderful thing. 

Reaching into his pocket, Ezra pulls out his keyring and unlocks the door to the former bookshop. Stepping inside, he flips on the light switch and locks the door. Silence greets him as he passes through the shop, walking around the boards he knows creak and groan when pressed upon. He brushes fingers over the spines of a few books as he passes by. Dust stirs from the disturbance, and Ezra makes a mental note to clean down here this weekend. He tries to keep the place tidy as he sorts through boxes of books left from his grandparents. But often he gets distracted from the tedious task of cleaning in favor of sifting through another box of books, wondering what might be waiting to be found. 

Going up the stairs, Ezra begins wearily tugging off his overcoat, draping it over his arm as he steps into the kitchen. Fighting off a bout of laziness, he forces himself to go hang up his coat, then returns to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea. While the water boils, he undoes the buttons of his vest, removes his pocket watch- another gift from his grandfather that he only wears on special occasions- and puts them away. With a groan, he bends down to undo his shoe laces and places them back in their proper place in the closet, then strips the rest of the way down and puts on a pair of green tartan pajamas and his dark grey robe. 

The kettle whistles at him then, and he returns to the kitchen to prepare a cup of chamomile tea. Moving to the sitting room, he places the cup gently on the table before plopping down with little grace onto the sofa. He realizes belatedly that he left his mobile in his bedroom, and with another groan he gets up and moves to fetch it. 

There’s a message from Anathema, and one from Crowley. He reads the one from Anathema first, shooting off a quick reply to her before opening the one from Crowley. It’s a simple good night, accompanied by the heart symbol Ezra still isn’t sure how to make on his phone. His own heart swells in delight from the simple message. 

It’s nearing midnight, and the last thing Ezra wants to do is disturb Crowley. But neither does he want to leave Crowley without a reply. So he types up a little message and sends it, thinking that will be the end of it. Crowely had sent that message nearly an hour and a half ago, so the chances of him seeing it tonight are slim. But it will certainly be a lovely thing to wake up to-

Ezra’s phone buzzes in his hand. 

He glances down at it in shock, then quickly answers it, a reprimand on his lips when he hears a sleepy, adorable, “Hey, angel.” 

That term of endearment is already doing wonderful, distracting things to him, and whatever he’d planned to say falls out of his mouth with the sigh that escapes him at hearing that delightfully drowsy voice. 

“My dear,” he says, at a loss for anything else. What else _can_ be said, when he’s so lovestruck all reason has been tossed aside? After a moment, his senses begin to piece themselves back together, and he does fuss: “You should be sleeping. I do hope I didn’t wake you.” 

“Been dozing off and on all day,” Crowley murmurs, clearly out of it. “How was… whatever you did?” 

“Boring,” Ezra complains, “It was a fundraiser for a local arts and theatre program. I adore the program because they do tremendous work in the community and provide scholarships for children who might not otherwise be able to afford it, but I swear, whoever is in charge of their yearly gala must _hate_ them because it’s the most dull tripe I am forced to sit through.”

“Couldn’t you just… not go?” Crowley asks through a yawn, “And send the money anyway?” 

“I’ve been going for ten years now,” Ezra laments, “And I do so enjoy the brief performance they always have the students do. Though I wish the focus would be more on the children _actually_ performing then the executives _talking_ about the children performing.” He pauses and then adds, because it’s the truth and because he knows it might make Crowley smile: “And… well. The catering company they hire makes an excellent beef Wellington.” 

True to expectations, he hears a snort on the other end of the phone. “ _Of course.”_

“It’s _quite_ good.” 

“Better than the duck in chocolate sauce?” Crowley asks, and Ezra can hear him making a purposefully loud sound of disgust. Or it might be another yawn. He isn’t certain. 

“I promise, when done correctly, it’s quite scrummy.” 

On the other end of the line Crowley giggles, the medicine clearly making him a bit more silly than he likes to admit he actually is. “Scrummy?” 

“Oh, don’t tease me,” Ezra huffs, though it’s with good humor. He rather likes being teased by Crowley. It’s always good natured, affectionate. It never feels like Crowley is laughing _at_ him, even if he is giggling over a perfectly acceptable word. Ezra will simply chalk that up to the medicine. 

“Think _you’re_ scrummy,” Crowley murmurs, the sound a bit muffled. Ezra can just imagine Crowley, cheek squished against the pillow, phone laying beside him as he fights off the drowsiness for just one more minute. It’s all so incredibly endearing that his chest seizes, heart feeling as if it’s been quite literally filled to the brim with love, and can do nothing else except swell from sheer delight. 

“Well, the feeling is mutual, my darling,” Ezra assures him, taking a moment to bask in the soft hum of approval that slips from Crowley’s lips. “Quite mutual. I confess I quite missed spending the evening with you.” 

“Still early,” Crowley responds, and Ezra can hear the shifting of fabric as Crowley apparently turns over in bed. That image is certainly appealing, but Ezra is not about to be tempted over to Crowley’s while he’s on medicine. Not when what Ezra wants would require Crowley’s enthusiastic consent and participation; neither of which he is equipped to give at the moment. 

“It’s midnight,” Ezra tells him, “And you’re half asleep as it is.” 

“‘M’not.”

“Really? Then tell me three things you did today. Using complete sentences.” 

Crowley groans and makes a sound that suggests he doesn’t feel like answering. After a moment however, he manages to murmur, “Missed you.” 

Ezra smiles, bright and giddy and stupid. “Oh, my dear one, I missed you too. But I will see you tomorrow evening. And I am very much looking forward to it.”

“Mmmhmmm.” 

“Go to sleep, Crowley,” he says softly, “Your body needs rest.”

Crowley makes a vague sort of sound of agreement, then murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like _night, angel_ before he gives into the temptation to succumb to sleep. 

Ezra ends the call with a sigh. It’s so delightful, having someone he can say goodnight to. Such a simple thing, really, but so important. Ezra has always refused to simply date around to appease the societal expectations that he has to have a partner. He knows people think he’s a lonely sort of fellow, but the thing is, he’s never minded being lonely. It’s never felt like a bad thing to be. And it still isn’t. Ezra is content in his silent flat, with his tea cooling on the table across from him. Solitude doesn’t bother him. 

Except now. Now he has someone, just a short trek across the city, who cares for him. Who desires him. Who misses him. And while he’s long been content with his lot in life, now he feels like he’s been lit aflame, but rather than burn up in it, he relishes the warmth and light in which it wraps him. 

Loneliness has never bothered him; but to have finally found someone with whom he thinks he might want to share his life, his home? 

Nothing has ever felt so right. 

}-{

Crowley arrives at the studio around eleven on Friday morning, and after only a few days away it’s strange to walk back inside. He loves this place, but he can’t help but feel something like unease twist in his gut as he enters the familiar halls of the Morningstar Ballet Company. 

He makes his way to the physical therapy room and sits, waiting for his appointment. About fifteen minutes later, Tracy walks out, once more decked out in a flamboyant outfit of purples, oranges, and reds. 

“Hullo, dearie,” she greets him with a charming smile as she walks primly over to him. 

“Morning, Madame,” Crowley greets her with a nod. Tutting as she pulls on some gloves she gives him an amused look. 

“Now, dear. I’m only a Madame on weekends,” she reminds him with a cheeky wink, “And I’m positive you didn’t come here for _those_ services.” 

“‘Fraid not, Tracy,” Crowley shakes his head. “Give me a minute to change?” 

“Course, luv,” she says. 

Crowely slips into the changing room and tugs off his skinny jeans, replacing them with a pair of shorts. He glances in the mirror, noticing how a couple faint bruises peek out from beneath the hem, and _grins._ If anyone will appreciate them, it’ll be Tracy. 

He limps out, and Tracy motions for him to take a seat so she can check his knee and begin warming up his leg. He sits, and when she stretches out his leg, he sees her notice the purplish spot on his thigh. She glances at him in amusement. 

“I don’t think you got _that_ from your fall on Monday, luv,” she says knowingly. 

“Nope,” Crowley grins. 

“Well, you make sure your man is gentle with you while you’re getting better,” she instructs while they begin to work, “I don’t want you coming in here complaining that you made things worse because you tried some ridiculous new position where you’re suspended in the air or some-such, and twisted it all up again.” 

Crowley’s laugh is only halted by a grimace from where she works his knee. “Oh, don’t worry; he’s been real gentle with me,” Crowley swears, “I _asked_ for those.” 

“I do hope you said ‘please’,” she teases. 

“Over and over.” 

Tracy gives him a pleased look, then continues working his leg. Their conversation shifts to the topic at hand, and Crowley tells her what hurts and when, and they work out a more comprehensive therapy to help his knee. After an hour, he’s exhausted and sore, but Tracy is pleased with his progress, so that makes the whole endeavor worth it. 

“Thanks, Madame,” he says when he returns from the dressing room, dressed in his jeans, boots, and black top once more. He twirls his sunglasses in his hand absently before sliding them on. 

“Hush, you,” she laughs, swatting him playfully on the arm. “Now you come back Monday, and we’ll keep going. You’ll be on the stage again in no time; promise.” 

“You’re a doll,” Crowley says to her, and then slowly makes his way out of the therapy room. He pauses when he hears music from one of the rehearsal rooms and follows it, walking easily as he does to keep his knee from being too jostled. He stands outside the door, watching as class goes on. They’re working on a center combination, Dagon leading them with precision and elegance. Crowley watches, feeling very much like an outsider, even as he knows the moves. He doesn’t move his feet, but he sweeps one hand down and out in front of him, following the choreography from on the other side of the door. 

He misses this, he realizes. He misses dancing more than he ever thought possible. He just wishes he felt better about staying on. But watching his fellow dancers now, he knows he can’t let this go, no matter how ruthless Michael can be. Surely it’s worth it-

_“That’s not fair!”_

Crowley whirls around, his knee twinging in response. He grunts but moves toward the shouting that’s coming from down the hallway. He knows those voices, and he doesn’t like what he’s hearing. 

“I don’t particularly care what you deem to be fair,” Michael responds in that soft but cold way of hers, “You wanted to do this piece. I am letting you. Our arrangement was never contingent upon whether Anthony would be able to perform it with you.” 

“You _know_ I wanted it to be the two of us leading,” Bea counters hotly. “He’s my partner! You know-“ 

“I _know_ that you are a hot-headed and demanding little diva who is putting a great deal on the line for someone whose time is all but up.” 

“You _wish_ it were up,” Bea hisses, “You fu-“ 

“I would mind how I finish that sentence,” Michael says coldly, standing up and pressing her palms into the desk. “You can stomp and pout all you like but you are forgetting one very important thing.” 

“And what’s that?” Bea hisses. 

_“I_ am in charge. And if I tell you to find another dancer to replace Anthony, then you _will.”_ She stands up straight, “He’s not worth the trouble you’re putting yourself in. So find someone else. Or, if you’re _so_ determined to have him, I can shelve the whole project.” 

“No-!” 

_“I_ made you the principal here,” Michael snaps. “I can take it away just as easily. There are plenty of dancers who would sell their soul to have your spot and I would be happy to let them rip you apart to get it. The choice is yours.” 

With a snarl, Bea turns to storm out of the office. With surprising agility, Crowley slips away and hides in one of the other rooms close by so as not to be seen. His hand clamps over his mouth to stifle a sob. 

Crowley _hates_ this. Michael St. Claire is a wretched woman who clearly is only interested in the power she has to lord over others. She doesn’t care about the art, about the people. She has no interest in cultivating a love and passion for ballet; she’s only interested in dominating others, in brandishing her authority like a weapon and using it to shove the creative vision of her more talented peers back into the box where she thinks they belong. 

He would know. He’s had several ideas that have been dismissed by Michael over the years. Not even Dagon, who seems to be Michael’s favorite- if she has such a thing- could convince her to try them. She also seems to take great pleasure in belittling Crowley, something he has wordlessly taken for years now, because deep down he’s always taken her at her word: he’s nothing without Morningstar. He’d been promising, once. But so had Morningstar. He remembers Lucy’s starlit eyes proclaiming how Morningstar would create something new, something more accessible. Something avant- garde that challenges the norms that ballet is so rooted in. But now Morningstar is just another pillar in the establishment Crowley had sacrificed everything to fight against. Michael has taken a place that had once been a paradise, and turned it into a prison. 

His knee twinges. Crowley glances down at the offending limb, and snarls. He knows his time is limited. He knows his star power will only get him so far, and there will come a time- sooner rather than later- where his name won’t mean as much. But the question he’s been grappling with all week lingers: is he willing to spend his last remaining years as a dancer miserable and under the thumb of a woman who sees him as nothing more than worthless? Can he stay, when this week he’s so clearly been shown by Ezra Fell that he is worth so much more? 

_Anyone else would replace you in an instant. But not me,_ Michael had sneered at him. 

_You are valuable, and worthy, regardless of whether or not you can dance,_ Ezra had breathed against him, after rushing to his side when Crowley had broken down. 

He’d come here today with the understanding that he would sign the contract and be grateful that he still has a place here. 

But now… 

Now something clicks, like the final piece of a long-unfinished puzzle. An understanding dawns, like the sun peaking through a sea of dark and imposing clouds, signaling the end of the storm. He knows what he has to do. Digging through his duffle bag, Crowley pulls out the contract and a pen. He pauses for a moment, takes a breath, then puts pen to paper. 

—

“Michael! Dude!” Crowley saunters into Michael’s office with a swagger that is exaggerated mostly because of his knee, but is equally because of the absolutely ridiculous amount of confidence he feels. 

Michael, as ever, looks up, unimpressed. “Anthony. How’s the knee?” 

_“Just great,”_ Crowley grins as he steps forward, “So great in fact, I thought I’d drop this off a little early.” He waves the contract in front of Michael, and then unceremoniously drops it on her desk. Michael glances at the crumpled mess of papers, eyes bugging when she instantly sees scrawled over the front page, in large block letters: 

**_I QUIT_ **

Without another word, he turns and begins to walk out. 

He only makes it a few steps before he hears the clacking of heeled boots behind him. He slows his walk even more to allow her to catch up to him. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” She snaps, rounding on him and staring him down, looking more unkempt than he’s ever seen her. Moreover, she looks furious, but for the first time, Crowley isn’t afraid of what that might mean for him. 

He’s finally fucking free. 

“I should think it obvious,” Crowley remarks easily. 

“You’re making a mistake,” Michael snaps, reaching out to grab his arm. Crowley slaps her hand away from him, and her face twists into something like a snarl. “I am still willing to let you stay on; that’s how generous I am, Anthony. No one else will have you, and you know it.” 

Crowley thinks of Bea, who he’d just overheard trying to postpone their next piece to give him time to heal. He thinks of Dagon, who worked tirelessly with him during rehearsals for _Sins_ to ensure he was taken care of and didn’t add further strain to his knee. He thinks of Ezra, who… 

Who saw him when he felt invisible; whose words always made him feel like he was special. 

Who loves him. Because he’s a dancer. And regardless of that fact, too. 

Crowley looks at Michael and smiles. “I’ll take my chances.” 

Stepping around Michael, Crowley hobbles toward the exit. When he steps out into the sun, he takes a deep breath, relishing at how easy it feels. He feels like he’s falling, but he doesn’t care; there’s a freedom to it that he wants to savor. Maybe he’ll crash in the coming days and realize this is a mistake, but he can’t seem to bring himself to care. 

He pulls out his phone and texts Bea. 

**Crowley:** _Come outside to front. Now._

Hardly any time passes at all before Bea comes rushing outside, holding their pointe shoes in their hands and walking on bare feet. They spot Crowley and rush over to where he is, and instantly start scanning him to see if they can tell what’s wrong. 

“Bea,” Crowley laughs, resting his hands on their shoulders. “I’m fine. Promise.” 

“Then what the fuck is the emergency?” Bea asks. 

“I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Crowley explains, then takes a breath, and says, “I just quit.” 

Bea blinks, and for a moment Crowley worries that they might cry. He’s never seen Bea cry before, and he doesn’t want to be the cause for that streak to end. He knows he’s just done a very hard, very painful thing, but he hopes Bea can understand, can at least support his choice. 

Then they laugh. “You fucking bastard, I am so proud of you!” They cry, grabbing him and pulling him into a hug that hurts more than anything. Shocked, Crowley hugs them back, though he can’t shake his confusion. 

“What?” 

Bea steps back, and looks positively devious. “Looks like I need to go have a chat with Michael, too.” 

“What?” Crowley asks, “Why?” 

“I told Michael a few weeks back that if you go, I go too.” 

Suddenly Michael’s words make a great deal more sense. _You have friends in… relevant places._

She hadn’t _just_ been talking about Ezra and his glowing review. She’d been talking about- 

“Are you nuts?! You can’t quit because of me!” 

“Why not?” Bea challenges, crossing their arms and looking as annoyed and defiant as ever. 

“Because I-“

“If you say you aren’t worth it, I’m going to call your boyfriend and tell him you’re badmouthing yourself.”

Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. “Bea,” he says instead, “You’re the _principal._ And you’re eight years younger thank me! You’ve got a much longer career ahead of you!” 

“So?” Bea shrugs, “I’m the fucking principal of Morningstar, and _we_ are hot off a rave review from the one and only Ezra Fell. We can find another company. Fuck Morningstar! Fuck Michael! The sky’s the limit for us, Crowley!” They spread their arms open wide. “Where do you wanna go?” 

Crowley thinks for a moment. There are plenty of companies out there who would probably be happy to take the two of them. And at any rate, they don’t _have_ to join a company. They could teach. Consult. Freelance. Start their own company. There is an entire universe before them, waiting for them to explore, and Crowley feels a rush of excitement coarse through him at the prospect. 

“As far as we can,” he says at last. 

Bea grins. “Then let’s go.” 

—

While Bea leaves to go have a chat with Michael, Crowley taps his fingers against his leg idly as he counts each ring of the phone. He’s full of nerves and excitement, but mostly he wishes that the phone would stop ringing so that- 

“Crowley, darling, how are you? Is your therapy over?” 

Crowley grins. “Hi, angel,” he says, feeling much more at ease than he did the first time he did this, “My therapy was fine. But that’s not why I’m calling.” 

“Is everything alright?” Ezra asks, concern making his voice deepen in a way that makes Crowley shiver. 

“Absolutely,” Crowley says, unable to help the giddiness he feels as he grips the phone close to him, “I have an inside scoop for you that you’re definitely going to want to know about.” 

“Oh?” 

“Beatrice Zelbub just resigned from the Morningstar Ballet Company.” 

Ezra gasps. “They did? Oh my goodness! Do you know why?” 

“Because I also resigned from the Morningstar Ballet Company.” 

There’s an extended silence on the other end of the phone, and just as Crowley is worried he might have actually upset Ezra by this news, he hears a soft, earnest, “Oh, _thank God!”_

“...What?” 

“Oh, my darling,” Ezra exclaims, “I was so desperately hoping you wouldn’t sign back on! But I felt we weren’t at a point yet in our relationship where I could state my opinion on the matter.” 

“Of course you could have,” Crowley argues, “Your opinion means a great deal to me, you know that!” 

“Well, yes, I do,” Ezra says, and he sounds so pleased that Crowley can’t help but preen under such affection. “But it’s your life and your career. I would certainly have given my input had you asked, but I didn’t want to move too fast, or come off as overbearing. I just want you to be happy, my dear.” 

_“You_ make me happy,” Crowley says simply, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. 

“And you do the same for me,” Ezra replies, “Oh, my dear boy, I am so unbelievably proud of you. You have no idea how much.” 

“You could tell me,” Crowley says suddenly, the thought forming even as he speaks it out, “In explicit detail. Emphasis on explicit.” 

“Would you like that?” Ezra asks, but the way he asks it suggests he already knows the answer, and is pleased by what it is. 

“Where are you?” Crowley asks, “Wherever you are I’ll come to you.” 

“I am on my way back to the office from lunch, but I can be at my flat in fifteen minutes instead.” 

“I’ll be there in sixteen.” 

—

Crowley’s car has been stuck in the parking garage of the studio building since he opted to walk to that little café Sunday evening. As he approaches the Bentley- and oh, how he’s missed his girl- he takes a moment to reconsider driving it. His knee is still very sensitive, and he doesn’t want to upset it further. However, walking will take far too long, and trying to chase down public transport during Friday lunch traffic will take even longer. And he promised Ezra he’d arrive in sixteen minutes. Fourteen now, that he’s wasted time debating on how to get there. 

He sides into the Bentley, taking a moment to relish their reunion, then pulls out of the garage for the last time. Grinning, he steps on the gas. 

Crowley arrives at the bookshop in what might be considered a miraculously short amount of time. He parks in a spot he’s pretty sure is illegal to park in, then limps over to the bookshop. He lifts a hand to knock on the red door, but it jerks open, and though it’s only been a day since he’s last seen Ezra, he can’t help but stare in awe at the beautiful man before him. Ezra grins, eyes crinkling as he lays eyes on Crowley, then reaches out, gently ushering him inside. 

The door is locked with a flick of Ezra’s wrist, and then his hands are on Crowley, who grabs Ezra with equal enthusiasm. Their lips meet in an open, wanton kiss, and Crowley melts into it with shocking ease. He’s already addicted to Ezra’s taste, to the feel of them pressed together. He can’t imagine his future without this wonderful, amazing man, and he knows with a strange sort of certainty that he won’t ever have to find out. 

Ezra guides them toward the back room of the shop, to the little cozy sitting area in the corner. It’s less dusty than the rest of the building, but even with all the dust, Crowely can’t imagine a more perfect spot. The room smells like old books and woodsmoke, and there’s the faint hint of rose water on Ezra’s skin, and Crowely thinks he might go mad. He kisses down Ezra’s throat, untying his bow tie and undressing him as they stumble back. 

“Your knee,” Ezra murmurs as he shrugs out of his overcoat. 

“Don’t worry about my knee,” Crowley says in between kisses, “Got another part of my body needs tending to.” 

Laughing, Ezra reaches down and cups his erection, causing Crowley to groan in pleasure. 

“I think I can be of service,” he says, bastard that he is, and moves back a step to undo his waistcoat. Crowley strips off his sunglasses, shoes, and the rest of his clothing before moving to lie back on the couch. Ezra joins him when he’s divested himself of his clothing- all neatly folded and placed on the table- and leans over him. “What would you like, my love?”

Crowley’s hips jerk at that name. “Tell me,” he begs, “Tell me you’re proud of me.” 

“Oh, my dearest,” Ezra breathes, “I am _so proud.”_

He moves over Crowley, adjusting as best he can despite the small space of the couch, and begins to slip his hand down, finger circling Crowley’s entrance teasingly. “You are incredible, my dear,” he says, peppering kisses over Crowley’s cheeks, his chest, his stomach. “The way you dance? Oh, my dear boy, you are so graceful. So beautiful. Your lines are impeccable. Immaculate.” His kisses travel lower, and Crowley lets out a mix between a moan and a sob as he realizes what Ezra is doing. 

“You are stunning,” Ezra remarks as he kisses over Crowley’s hips, “I can’t take my eyes off you.” 

Crowley whimpers, “Please!”

“In time, my love,” Ezra promises before pulling away entirely, causing Crowley to whine pitifully. “Touch yourself, my darling. I’ll be right back.” With that he disappears up the stairs. Crowley has half a mind to follow him, but fears trying to rush up the steps will only end in agony, so he stays on the couch, stroking himself and rubbing one hand over his bruises as he listens to footsteps above him rush in the direction of the bedroom. 

Moments later he hears Ezra returning, and squeezes himself, letting out a sigh of pleasure just as Ezra appears at the foot of the steps. 

“Oh, but you are a vision,” he declares softly, wasting no time in returning to the couch, where he coats his fingers with lube, and touches one to Crowley’s entrance. “Are you ready, darling?” 

_“Yes!”_

Ezra presses a finger inside. 

“Oh, you’re so lovely,” he breathes, opening Crowley up with tortuously slow strokes of his finger, “More beautiful now than I’ve ever seen you. I recall,” he says, eventually adding a second finger, which causes Crowley to grasp at him in a desperate need for release, “When you danced in _La Bayadère…_ oh darling, I knew then there was something about you… something remarkable and wonderful.” 

“Heh,” Crowley gasps as Ezra moves his fingers. He writhes against him. “Been a while since I did that one.” 

“Yet I still remember it so vividly,” Ezra whispers, warm breath against Crowley’s ear sending a shiver through him. “But my dearest, you must know: you’re even more beautiful now, writhing on my sofa, than you have ever been. All that beauty and elegance on stage can’t compare to the splendor of knowing you. Your smile, your laugh, the way you tease me,” he kisses him, and Crowley whines, shifting his hips in a silent plea for more. “Your bravery today. You are _exquisite,_ Crowley, and it has been an honor getting to know you better. I never want to stop discovering things about you. I want all of you, my darling.” 

“I’m yours,” Crowley breathes brokenly in response, “Please, Ezra. I need you.” 

Ezra presses in a third finger. “In a moment, darling,” he whispers, swallowing Crowley’s cry with his lips. “You’re doing so well, my dear. Splendidly, in fact. You’ll take my cock so beautifully, won’t you?” 

“Yes, Ezra, please, for fuck’s sake!” 

Crowley feels him draw his fingers out, and lets out a cry of frustration. “Now, now,” Ezra soothes, slicking up his erection and pressing it against Crowley’s opening, “You've been so patient,” he whispers soothingly, “Here we are.” Slowly, he slides in. 

Crowley’s back arches in pleasure as Ezra sinks into him. _“Oh fuck,”_ he gasps, nearly incoherent from the overwhelming amount of love and pleasure he feels. 

Ezra kisses him softly as he gently begins to thrust. “Incredible,” he breathes against Crowley’s lips. “You always feel so much better than I- _ohhh-_ could ever imagine.”

“Imagine it often?” Crowley asks, reaching down to begin stroking himself again. 

“Oh, more than I- _Ah!-_ should admit to,” Ezra says, breath hitching as Crowley ruts up against him. “How could I not? You’re temptation- _ohhh…-_ incarnate, my dear.” 

He punctuates that declaration by moving harder, drawing out their pleasure as he thrusts his hips, and Crowley relishes every moment of it. He takes each thrust eagerly, and meets Ezra in turn, begging for more until finally he feels the white hot blaze of perfection burst within him, and he spills over his stomach. He barely has time to relish the pleasure before he feels Ezra stiffen and spill within him, and nothing has ever been as wonderful as this. 

It feels like the first day of the rest of his life. 

Ezra moves after a moment, sliding out of him, and then stands to grab a wash rag that he’d brought down with him. It’s wet and cool, making Crowley tense slightly as Ezra cleans him, but after a moment of getting used to the cold he relaxes and smiles up at Ezra like a ridiculous, lovesick fool. 

“One of these days,” he says, catching Ezra’s attention, “My knee will be in better shape and I am going to shove you on your back and fuck you _for hours.”_

The look that Ezra gives him does nothing to temper the desire surging within him, and in fact only makes him want _more._ “I can hardly wait, my dear.” 

Later, once they’ve cleaned themselves up, redressed, and carefully moved upstairs, Crowley has to admit he feels a little bit guilty about dragging Ezra away from his job for a mid afternoon celebratory fuck. When he tries to apologize, the blond hushes him with a kiss. 

“None of that,” he chides him gently as he stands and moves to the kitchen. “I told my boss I had information that I was going to investigate regarding one of the dance companies. Of course, it will become public knowledge soon, but obviously I won’t say or do anything-“

“You should,” Crowley interrupts. “It was your words that first inspired me. It’s only fair that you write about… whatever it is that I’m gonna do next.” 

“What _are_ you going to do?” Ezra asks as he returns to the sitting room, two glasses of wine in his hand. He hands one to Crowley, who accepts it happily, watching as Ezra sits down beside him. As if drawn to one another, they curl up together, Crowley’s head on Ezra’s shoulder, his cheek resting on Crowley. 

“I dunno,” Crowley says, surprised when the confession doesn’t terrify him in the slightest. How can he be afraid, when- the first time in a long time- his future seems so transcendentally bright? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people really wanted Ezra to stick it to Michael, and while that would have been *fantastic* to see, I really felt like Crowley deserved to have the ultimate victory here. 
> 
> I worked for 3.5 years at a job where my boss was emotionally abusive and gaslit me, causing me to suffer from extreme anxiety and depression. And let me tell you, the elation I felt when I handed her my letter of resignation is something I will never forget. Doesn’t mean the shit she put me through instantly got better, because it still hasn’t, four years later. But I’m healing. But the freedom and catharsis I felt in securing my own freedom was something I felt Crowley needed to experience as well. 
> 
> —
> 
> Part VII: As Crowley and Bea figure out their future, Ezra and Crowley experience the first major bump in their still-new relationship. 
> 
> —
> 
> (Oh, don’t look at me like that. They’ll be fine.)


	7. Part VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Crowley and Bea figure out their future, Ezra and Crowley experience the first major bump in their still-new relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all as always for your lovely comments! 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

**Part VII**

_  
One Month Later  _

“So we’re in agreement?” Bea asks, using one foot to brace themself on the edge of Crowley’s chair and pressing, tilting their chair back to balance on its hind legs. Around them, patrons of The Wall bustle about, oblivious to the intense conversation happening at the corner table. 

“I think it’s a good plan,” Crowley says simply. And it is. It’s taken them a month to figure out their future and all that it will take to make it a reality, but they both look at each other now with fledgling smiles, feeling that, finally, they’ve settled on something that they both want. 

“I’m not settling for  _ good,”  _ Bea remarks plainly. “This needs to be bloody brilliant.” 

“Well, then, it’s  _ brilliant,”  _ Crowley amends, feeling that smile on his lips grow. “You an’ me. Our own ballet company. Think of the possibilities.” 

“And this time it’ll be done  _ right,”  _ Bea insists. 

“Of course it will,” Crowley agrees, resisting the urge to smack away Bea’s foot and cause their chair to tip over. If they were alone at his flat, he absolutely would. But they’re in public, and just off the heels of an exclusive breaking news story - written by Ezra, of course- about their sudden departure from Morningstar Ballet. They’ve spent the last couple weeks recounting their time at Morningstar to him, as well as asking other dancers to do the same. Several did come forward, most demanding anonymity, to corroborate the accusations. 

Three days ago, it was announced that Michael St. Claire would no longer be in charge of Morningstar Ballet Company. 

“So it’s decided,” Bea says, a satisfied smirk on their face. “We’re a dance company. Now all we need is a name, a location, dancers, an actual business plan, and a managing and artistic director.” 

“Oh, is that all,” Crowley says dryly. 

Bea rolls their eyes. “The location is the most important, I think,” they say, “We can’t do anything if we don’t have a place to rehearse.” 

“So we find a location,” Crowley agrees, “Can’t be  _ too  _ hard, right?” 

“Right.” 

—

“This is  _ impossible!”  _ Crowley groans the next day as he and Bea scroll through real estate listings on Crowley’s couch. “None of these places work, and the ones that  _ might _ cost more than I think I’ll ever make in my life!” 

“What about this one?” Bea asks, holding their phone out for Crowley to see. He blanches, eyes widening at the price. “Five hundred and seventy nine thousand pounds?” He all but shouts at her, “Bea, that’s  _ insane!”  _

“That’s what we’re gonna have to pay,” Bea huffs, “I don’t like it either, but if we want to do this, we’re gonna have to take out a business loan.” 

Crowley groans, dropping his head back onto the couch cushion and staring up at the ceiling. “No, I know,” Crowley says, swiping his hands through his hair is frustration. It had taken him almost a decade to save up for the Bentley, and she hadn’t cost nearly this much. He knows that a business loan is the next logical step, but the thought of being in so much debt makes him uncomfortable. “Think reality is finally settling in. We’re starting a company. That takes a lot of work.” 

“But we can do it,” Bea says stubbornly, “We’ve been in this business a long time. We can figure this shit out. And we’ll be the best damn ballet company in London.”

“In England,” Crowley adds. 

“In the whole fucking  _ world,”  _ Bea grins. “Dagon’s got ideas. I have my piece.” 

“I’ve got an idea for something, too,” Crowley adds as he sits back up, bending his knees to his chest. There’s no pain as he does it, and he can’t help but feel a thrill of triumph at the fact that he can move easily again. It’s so easy to take even the smallest movements for granted until they cause tremendous pain, and Crowley takes a moment to savor the ease at which he can move again. Walking is hardly a thought, now. With Tracy’s approval, he’s back to doing barre warmups (using his couch or Ezra’s kitchen counter) and the movements feel so unspeakably good in their familiarity. He’s a bit stiff from a month of no dancing, but he knows that persistence will guide him back to where he was before his unfortunate fall. 

Beside him, Bea is speaking, and he forces himself to focus on them, tilting his head to look at them. 

“I’m going to make some appointments to look at a few places,” they decide, “May as well start narrowing things down.”

“That expensive one  _ is  _ pretty nice,” Crowley says begrudgingly. It’s not that he doesn’t want to look; he does. But that price tag has him reeling a bit. He’s never really struggled with money, but he also isn’t rolling in cash. The thought of owing that much makes him a tad uncomfortable, regardless of how successful he knows they’ll be. 

“What about that little one a few blocks from here?” Bea asks, flipping through tabs on their phone and showing him a small brick building that’s rather old and run down, but has potential. 

“S’pose it depends on if we want to pay less on a place then renovate it, or if we want to pay more for something turn-key,” Crowley shrugs. “I don’t know how to use any power tools, so…” 

“I still want to look at it,” Bea says simply. 

“Then  _ you  _ can use the power tools.” 

“We’d  _ hire _ someone, shit for brains.” 

“Fine. Put it on the list,” Crowley says with an exasperated sigh, “And then go away. It’s nearly five and Ezra is coming over soon. I can’t be responsible for what you might see if you’re still here when he walks in.” 

Scoffing, Bea saves the listing and then pockets their phone. “You are disgusting.” 

“Be nice or I’ll fuck him on the sofa _and_ the table and _then_ _you_ won’t be able to sit anywhere without thinking of the kinky shit we get up to on my furn- ow!” 

Bea smacks his arm with all the force in their tiny body, then stands. “You are gross,” they say as they head toward the door. “I’ll text you later with the appointment times. You free tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Ezra’s attending some new show tomorrow night so we can grab dinner after if you want. Talk over our options.” 

“Sounds good,” they say with a nod. They open the door, then lean back and give Crowley a pointed glare. “Do  _ not  _ have sex on my coffee table. I sit there.” 

Crowley laughs heartily as the door slams in Bea’s wake. 

—

The pasta sauce simmers on the stovetop while Crowley adds noodles to a pot of boiling water. Ezra just text a minute ago to say he’ll arrive in about five minutes, and Crowley can’t wait. He hasn’t seen Ezra in two days due to work and other commitments- but that’s fine. It’s a return to a normalcy of both their lives, and Crowley is happy for it. Gone is the strangeness of being home bound and injured. Gone is the need for Ezra to uproot his life to care for Crowley (not that Crowley hadn’t enjoyed the attention). Now their evenings can be spent however they like. With Crowley not dancing, he’s able to get out more, though he feels the intangible itch to get back on stage. He misses dancing. Wants to experience the high that comes with performing such demanding roles. 

Wants Ezra to watch him. Wants to feel his gaze from the front row, and know that Ezra is only there for  _ him.  _

The door opens- they each gave the other a spare key a week or so ago- and the object of Crowley’s thoughts and affections enters, looking as proper and dignified as ever. His bow tie is pink today, light and dark stripes complimenting the pale pink of his button down. 

Crowley already wants to rip the thing off him. 

“Good evening, my dear,” Ezra greets him cheerfully. 

“Angel,” Crowley replies with a smile that he wishes were suave and charming, but deep down knows is goofy. 

“I brought wine,” Ezra remarks as he tugs off his overcoat, and then kicks off his shoes by the door. His socks are- unsurprisingly- the same pattern as his bow tie, and Crowley absolutely adores him for that. 

“I made pasta,” he says, waving his hand at the stove. 

“It smells divine,” Ezra remarks as he moves to stand by Crowley at the stove. “May I be of any assistance?”

Dipping a spoon in the sauce, he blows on it and then holds it out for Ezra, other hand hovering underneath the spoon to keep it from spilling. “Taste this.” 

Ezra wraps his lips around the spoon, sighing as he tries the sauce. “Delicious,” he says after he’s swallowed the spoonful. “You’re quite the cook,” he praises. Crowley trembles at the words, then takes another spoonful of sauce. He blows on it, then looks from it to Ezra, who instantly understands what’s about to happen. He takes a step back. 

“Don’t you make a mes-“ 

He’s interrupted by Crowley touching a finger to the sauce in the spoon, now cooled significantly. He swipes that finger over Ezra’s lips, then sweeps in, kissing him. 

“Mmmm,” Crowley sighs against him, pleased when Ezra moans and uses his free hand to press Crowley closer. “Delicious,” he murmurs against Ezra’s lips, dropping the spoon onto the counter in favor of wrapping his arms around Ezra. He feels warm hands come to rest on his hips, pulling him closer, and loses himself to the delectable thrill of Ezra’s lips on his. The feel of their bodies pressed close together. 

“Bed,” Ezra murmurs, reaching out blindly to turn off the burners on the stove. 

“What about dinner?” Crowley asks half-heartedly, smiling at the fact that Ezra is already bunching up his shirt in an attempt to pull it off him. 

“Later,” Ezra growls as he leans away, finally getting Crowley’s shirt off, “I’m hungry for you.” 

Once in the bedroom, Crowley takes great pleasure in unbuttoning Ezra; of slowly revealing him inch by inch, the sound of hitched breaths and sighs of,  _ “Oh Crowley,”  _ encouraging him. Once he gets Ezra’s bow tie, waistcoat, and shirt unbuttoned, Ezra grips Crowley close, moving him with ease toward the bed. Reclining back, Ezra guides Crowley to straddle his hips, adjusting him as he pleases, and much to Crowley’s great delight. He loves being manhandled like this, and so he tells Ezra as much, in between gasping breaths and frantic kisses. 

“I’m very pleased you enjoy it,” Ezra sighs as Crowley reaches down to begin undoing his trousers. “I’m rather fond of seeing you on top of me.” 

In the back of Crowley’s mind, he knows that’s partly because it means his knee is improved. He can bend it and straighten it and move it without issue, which means he’s not in pain. The fact that his comfort is so important to Ezra is astonishing, and so he rewards that kindness by sliding down Ezra’s body, finally tugging off his trousers and pants, and swallowing down his cock without any preamble. 

_ “Oh, dearest,”  _ Ezra sighs contentedly, hand moving to grip Crowley’s hair, a reminiscence of their first night together. But now Ezra knows well what Crowley likes, and so he doesn’t need to be told to tug a little harder, grip a little tighter. That mutual understanding of what they both enjoy stirs within Crowley; he adores that Ezra always seems to know what he needs. Adores that he is learning what Ezra enjoys. That they have built up a mutual trust and intimacy in the past month; that Crowley knows exactly what to do to make Ezra gasp and writhe under him. He has no lube on hand- it’s in the drawer and he’s not getting off of Ezra for anything- so he sucks on his finger, then presses it against Ezra’s hole, lightly teasing as his mouth resumes that rhythmic up and down slide over his cock. 

“You  _ dreadful  _ tease,” Ezra gasps through a wanton moan, “Get up here.” 

“Ask me nicely,” Crowley says as he releases Ezra, mouth a delightful, puffy red from his efforts. 

_ “Please _ come up here and ravish me properly.” 

A devilish smile spreads across Crowley’s lips. “Oh, with  _ pleasure.”  _

—

Later, once Ezra has been well and truly fucked into the mattress, Crowley kisses him and leaves him to tidy himself up in favor of going to reheat dinner. After about fifteen minutes Ezra reappears, nowhere near as buttoned up as before. He smells like Crowley’s soap, which does things to the dancer he tries not to dwell on lest he simply drag Ezra  _ back  _ to bed. 

Crowley plates their food, then opens the wine while Ezra grabs the utensils and napkins. The fact that he knows where those things are gives Crowley the chills; he’s so comfortable with someone that he’s let them into his life, his home, and his heart, and they use his soap and open his kitchen drawers with a familiarity as if they live there in return. 

Crowley smiles at Ezra, who smiles back at him, and then they settle at the kitchen table and tuck into their dinner. As they eat, Crowley asks Ezra about his day. 

“Oh, it was nothing special,” Ezra says simply as he takes a sip of wine. “Mercifully quiet, which is the about the best thing I can ask for.” 

“Did you get your weekly reading from Anathema?” 

Ezra shakes his head. “She was out all day on assignment.” 

“Hence the quiet?” 

Unable to help himself, Ezra laughs. “Exactly.” He takes another bite of spaghetti, dabs his mouth on his napkin before placing it gently back on his lap, then asks, “And you, my darling? Any progress with Bea?” 

Crowley tenses at that. Ezra knows, probably better than even Bea, about Crowley’s nerves regarding opening a new company. He wants it, of that there’s no question. But that ever present fear that his body will betray him lingers like a ghost he can’t seem to exercise. Never mind that Michael was dismissed thanks to Ezra’s scathing report on the matter. Even still, her cruelty lingers, taunting him with words he knows are true. Even if Bea and Ezra tell him otherwise, Crowley knows deep down, Michael is right. 

But Ezra saved him. Bea saved him. He still doesn’t know why. (He does; he just finds it hard to believe). 

“We’re going tomorrow to look at a few buildings to start our own company,” Crowley tells him as he finishes his dinner and gets up, moving to the stove to begin putting away the leftovers. Ezra joins him and while they tidy up Crowley goes over their plans for the next day. As he hands Ezra the last clean plate to be put away he mentions absently how he’d balked over the price of some of the buildings. 

“May I ask how much?” Ezra inquires as he follows Crowley to the couch. 

“Over half a million pounds,” Crowley sighs as he collapses on one end of the couch, letting his legs drape over Ezra’s thighs. He’s discovered in their short time together that he  _ loves _ having his legs rubbed while they talk. Mercifully, Ezra seems to enjoy absently scratching his fingers over the strong muscle of Crowley’s calf, so everyone wins. “We’re going to have to take out a loan. Which I’m not looking forward to. At  _ all.”  _

“Oh, well,” Ezra says thoughtfully, “Instead of a loan where they charge you a ridiculous amount of interest, I could provide you with the funds.” 

Crowley tenses, and he feels his stomach plummet.  _ “What?”  _

Ezra looks at him, and shrugs. “I have money,” he says simply, “More than I really know what to do with. I’d be happy to invest in your future and purchase a place.”

Slowly, Crowley draws his legs back from Ezra, pressing his back into the armrest of the couch. “Absolutely not!” He recoils, looking at Ezra in horror. He’s not sure why the thought sends such revulsion through him, but all he knows is that’s exactly how he feels on the matter. Ezra  _ cannot _ invest that kind of money in him. 

“I don’t see what the issue is,” Ezra says, looking a touch affronted, “I have every confidence that I would be making a wise investment. I trust Bea. More importantly, I trust you.” 

“It’s not about-“ Crowley cuts himself off, then stands, hands clutching his hair as he begins to pace, feeling like the ground beneath him has just been ripped away. “You’ve known me for a  _ month,”  _ he says, turning to look at Ezra. “Why the hell would you do something so…” he stops; let’s the sentence hang. 

“So what?” Ezra challenges from where he’s seated. 

“So  _ stupid,”  _ Crowley finishes, exasperated. 

“I don’t see how it’s stupid,” Ezra says, looking every bit as confused as Crowley feels. He stands slowly, approaches Crowley even slower, as if he were a caged animal set to strike. “You need money; I  _ have _ money. If you’re worried about how it will look from an ethical standpoint, we can work-“ 

_ “No,”  _ Crowley huffs again, stepping away from Ezra, holding his hand up. Whether to silence him or make him keep his distance, he isn’t sure, so he drops his hand just as quickly. “You-“ he pauses, huffs, then turns away. Hands sliding to rest on his hips, he says, “You can’t keep  _ saving me,”  _ he bites out, hands sliding around to hug himself.

Behind him, he hears Ezra huff. “That’s  _ hardly  _ what I’m doing.” 

“Yes it is!” Crowley snaps, whirling around. “If it weren’t for your review, I’d have been dropped from Morningstar. Like I  _ deserved.  _ But you praised me for some ridiculous reason and I was kept on. And then how do I repay that kindness? I fucking  _ quit  _ anyway! And now you what? You want to buy me a fucking building so I can just fail once my knee gives out again? I can’t pay you back, Ezra! I’ll  _ never  _ be able to pay that back! But I would want to. I can’t just… keep taking your charity because you feel sorry for me!” 

“I  _ hardly  _ feel sorry for you, Ezra snaps back, clearly hurt and reeling from this sudden onslaught. “It wasn’t pity that caused me to write that review. I wrote it because it’s  _ true.  _ And I am  _ glad  _ you left Morningstar! Michael St. Claire is a wretched woman who has berated you for so long you think you’re unworthy of anything good! You’re not, Crowley. Or are you saying  _ I’m  _ so bad at  _ my  _ job that I had to  _ lie _ ?” 

Crowley stares at him, aghast. “Wha-? No! No, I’m not saying that and you know it! I’m saying you are giving a whole lot more to than you’re getting. What do you  _ get  _ out of this?” 

“I  _ get  _ to help the man I care for do something with his life that will make him happy!” Ezra retorts in exasperation. 

“And when things between us fails?” Crowley asks expectantly. “I fucked up and left the Royal Ballet. I fucked up and stayed when Michael took over Morningstar. I fucked up and ruined my goddamned knee! You think I won’t fuck this up to? I will! And then what will you do? Take the money back? Demand I repay you? I  _ can’t  _ be with you and be in debt to you! I already owe you so fucking much, Ezra! I  _ can’t-“  _

“You don’t owe me anything, you- you stubborn thing!” Ezra huffs harshly, stomping his foot in a way that might have been funny if things weren’t so tense between them. “I love you, damn it all, and I just want to help!” 

“I don’t  _ want  _ your help!” Crowley shouts, “For once I want to do something right on my own! I want to be worthy of this by my own merits, not because you feel sorry for me and think I need a fucking savior!” 

It’s when Ezra sniffles, that Crowley seems to realize what just happened. He feels like the last five minutes have been an out of body experience, and things he didn’t even know he was feeling have been unearthed and shoved into the limelight for an inspection that he is horribly unprepared for. He sees the tears in Ezra’s eyes, and wishes more than anything that he could take back everything he just said, if only to keep that look from forming on Ezra’s face. 

That look will haunt him forever. 

With more dignity than Crowley thinks he feels, Ezra nods, wipes his eyes, and sighs. “I think I should go.” 

“No, Ez-“ 

Crowley bites his tongue when Ezra holds up a hand to silence him. He moves, gathering his bow tie, waistcoat, and jacket, and slips on his shoes. “I think it’s best if I do,” he says after a moment. “I think we both need a day or two to… put our thoughts in order. You clearly feel there is a distinct imbalance in our relationship, and I think we need to take some time to determine if that can be rectified, and if not, where that leaves us.”

“Ezra, I’m-“ 

_ “Good night,  _ Crowley.” 

The door shuts gently behind Ezra. The moment he’s gone, Crowley slides to the floor, and weeps. 

—

Crowley wakes up to a pounding that first registers in his head and then again a few moments later from the door. With a groan he sits up, realizing belatedly that he is on the couch. He has no memory of moving there. He remembers… 

_ Oh, fuck.  _

He remembers the fight. Of the stomach dropping fear he’d felt at Ezra offering to financially support him. Of Crowley’s reaction. His visceral, hurtful reaction. 

_ Where the  _ fuck _ did all that come from?  _

The door is still pounding (or maybe that’s his head?). Groaning, he grabs his phone; sees that Bea text him last night. And this morning. And he has several missed calls from them. 

There’s nothing from Ezra. 

He chokes a little at that, and drops his phone back on to the table.  _ Well fucking done,  _ he thinks bitterly,  _ he wants nothing more to do with you. Way to ruin something before it had a chance to really begin. _

Curling in on himself, Crowley wishes the pounding on the door would stop. He doesn’t want to deal with the person on the other side. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He doesn’t want to think about how horribly he’d reacted last night. The only thing he wants to do is crawl into his bed and sleep for as long as he can. Perhaps a century. That might be long enough to ease the ache he knows he’s going to feel for the foreseeable future.

_ “Crowley! Open up! Or I’m coming in!”  _

Knowing Bea won’t let up until they get their way, Crowley stands with a groan and moves to the door to answer it. On the other side, Bea stands, looking furious until they see Crowley. Their expression melts into concern. 

“You look like shit.” 

Crowley takes a shuddering breath. “Yeah. Prob’ly.” 

Looking at him skeptically, Bea asks, “What the fuck happened to you?” 

He shrugs and turns away, leaving Bea in the doorway. They follow him inside and kick the door shut. 

“Fucked up,” he says as he flops back on the couch, draping one arm over his eyes. “As usual.” 

“What happened?” Bea asks, softer and more gentle than Crowley has ever heard them. It’s honestly surprising, to see this amount of sincerity from them off the stage. They rarely engage in deep, meaningful conversation, seemingly having an aversion to such intimacy, so their obvious concern now hits Crowley hard, and another sob escapes him. 

“Oh, Bea,” he whispers, then sits up, and through tears and a trembling voice, he tells them everything. Recounts Ezra’s reaction and how hurt he’d looked when Crowley had made his outlandish accusations. How he’d drudged up some previously unrealized fears about this whole endeavor and threw them in Ezra’s face. How he’d implied Ezra would lord this perceived failure over him. 

How he’s certain he’s well and truly driven away the man he loves. 

When he finishes, he looks at Bea helplessly. He doesn’t know what to expect from them, but he’s only partly surprised when they reach to smack the side of his head. 

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” They demand, looking very near furious. “He offered to help us out financially and you insulted him and turned him away? What the fuck, Crowley!?” 

Crowley rubs the spot where they smacked him. “That hurt!” 

“Well, that’s what you get for being a fucking idiot!” Bea replies, nearly shrill in their frustration, “Crowley, he wants to invest! Why would you say no to that?” 

“Because I can’t accept his money!” Crowley snaps irritably. “What if we break up? Which,” he stops and lets out a sound that’s half bitter laugh, half sob, “I probably already managed to accomplish.  _ Fuck me. _ ” 

“So what if you broke up,” Bea says, “Which, outside of your stupidity last night, probably wouldn’t ever happen! He’s nuts about you! Even I can fucking see that! Besides, you moron, it’s an investment in the  _ arts! _ It’s not like he’d suddenly stop caring about ballet and shut us down for shits and giggles! He’s way too-” they stop and make a face,  _ “Virtuous  _ for something like that.” 

“I know he wouldn’t do that,” Crowley sighs, “It’s just… I already owe him so much, Bea. I don’t want to be in debt to him further. He’s already given me so much and-” Crowley glances down, looking at the floor in dismay. “What the fuck have I done but inconvenince him at every turn? His review saved my ass, then I get injured and he has to take care of me. Then I up and quit and what? Expect him to just shell out whatever we need to pay for a building so I can try and salvage what’s left of my career?” 

Bea watches Crowely for a long moment. From where they’re seated on his table, they’re at equal height, and it’s all Crowley can do to keep their gaze. “You do realize,” they say softly, “That Ezra is a  _ professional _ critic, who wrote a review based on his  _ professional _ understanding of ballet? Sure, I gave you shit about how fucking dopey over you it was, but look. I’m not in love with you, but even I can agree that he was right. You’re a damn amazing dancer, Crowley. And… and I should have stuck up for you sooner.”

“You shouldn't have to-” 

“Michael has clearly fucked with your head to ensure you don’t actually know your own worth,” Bea continues sharply, ignoring Crowley’s attempt to speak. “Ezra’s right. You’re amazing. He didn’t write that review because he wanted you to owe him. He didn’t do it because he knew you’d call him. He did it because it’s his job. He came here and took care of you because you got injured, and he  _ wanted _ to be there. He's asked for nothing in return except that you respect him, and  _ that’s  _ the  _ only  _ place where you have fucked up. He’s not the kind of prick who will make us owe him. He’s offering to help because he believes in us. In  _ you.  _ He’s not going to lord it over you. And if he  _ ever  _ did, I’d punch him right in that stupidly posh face of his.” 

Crowley wants to believe them. Maybe in time he can. But for the moment, he just sighs and hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. 

“It’s not me you need to apologize to,” Bea says simply. “But if you want to make it up to me, then get your shit together and let’s go look at properties.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sniffles, wiping his eyes and feeling like a fool, “Yeah, okay.” 

“And after we’re done, you’re going to call Ezra and apologize to  _ him,”  _ Bea says, “Ask him nicely to hear your point of view, and then fucking  _ listen  _ to his. You’re a fucking adult. Act like it.” 

Crowley nods. “You say that as if he still wants anything to do with me.” 

Bea scoffs. “I’ve seen the way he writes about you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. If one little fight is enough to ruin you two then,” Bea shrugs, “You’re both too stupid for your own good.” 

}-{

Frustrated, Ezra taps the backspace button on his laptop with more force than is strictly necessary. He’s tried to start this review five separate times, but each time he finds the words forced, unnatural, and insincere. In truth, he doesn’t want to write anything. He wants to call Crowley, beg him for forgiveness, and vow he will never offer financial aid ever again if that’s truly what Crowley wants. He’s not sure why Crowley reacted so forcefully, and it breaks his heart that he may have already driven Crowley away over something that honestly is not an issue for him. 

Maybe that’s the problem, he reasons as he stares at a blank screen. Maybe it’s the fact that Ezra has never really had to worry about money. He doesn’t know Crowley’s financial situation, whether he’s had major struggles or what, though he supposes that it’s still too soon into their relationship to really know those sorts of things about one another. He frowns at the screen. He now recalls why he’d been hesitant to say anything about  _ love _ so soon. They’ve had plenty of discussions over the past month, each desperate to learn as much about the other as possible, but a month- a  _ week _ \- is far too soon to be entertaining ideas of “falling in love.” 

He’s moved too fast, and now they’ve crashed, just as he feared they might. 

But,  _ oh. _ That moment when Crowley had said what Ezra had been thinking: that this thing between them can very easily turn from a deep affection into love. Ezra knows he loves Crowley. But he now worries they were foolish to put life into those words so soon. 

Something wet runs down Ezra’s cheek, and he lifts a hand quickly to catch the tear that fell. He looks up hurriedly, grateful that, for once, Anathema seems to be genuinely invested in her work, and doesn’t notice. Quickly, he grabs a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his eyes, doing his best to keep the tears at bay. It won’t do to cry in front of everyone. And at any rate, Ezra refuses to cry again. Crying means he has a reason to grieve; that he’s lost something. He refuses to accept that this will ruin him and Crowley. 

If only because he doesn’t think he can survive the heartbreak if this  _ is _ the end. 

_ No,  _ he thinks determinedly,  _ I will not give up so easily. I want this. I want Crowley. I want to fight for him.  _

_ I love him.  _

Despite the hesitation of actually saying the words aloud, Ezra has never been more certain of anything: he loves Anthony Crowley. He’d admired and lusted after the dancer, but he loves and adores the man.

Whatever he can do to salvage this, he’s willing to do. If that means rescinding his offer and letting Crowley go about this his own way, then so be it. What he understands more than anything is that whatever Crowley decides, it needs to be his choice. His own terms. Their previous meeting had been pure chance. They’d been brought together by an accident that spurred them into a passionate whirlwind romance that had been built on mutual admiration and longing and attraction. 

Now they need to go back to basics, and build a solid foundation, if this thing between them is going to last. 

He recalls his days of dancing; of the repetitive movements and agonizing attention to detail. The precise movements and rotations and angles of hips to ensure that one's posture remained perfect while slowly growing more and more flexible. More at ease with the movements, until one day they’re as natural as breathing. Ezra put in that work long ago when he’d sought to be a dancer. Crowley puts in that work every day to prove his worth as a dancer with an injury. 

He thinks that, together, they can put in the work to make this thing between them something substantial, something strong. Something as natural as breathing. He’s willing to put in the work. 

The question is: is Crowley? 

}-{

Bea and Crowley sit down at the restaurant, exhausted and frustrated. None of the buildings are even remotely close to what they need. And the ones that have potential? Are too expensive to justify. 

“God damn it,” Bea huffs irritably, telling the waiter to bring them a beer and to keep them coming. Crowley glances at the wine list longingly, then requests a bourbon instead. 

“Well this was a waste,” Crowley huffs. 

“Maybe not,” Bea grumbles, pulling out their phone to keep looking. After a moment they drop their phone and press their head to the table. “Or maybe so.  _ Fuck.”  _

“Maybe it’s a fool’s errand after all,” Crowley sighs, nodding to the waiter when he brings their drinks. 

“It can’t be,” Bea says from where they’re still pressed against the table. “There’s gotta be something out there that won’t take a fucking year just to renovate into a fucking usable space.” 

“Or cost a million pounds,” Crowley adds bitterly. 

Bea glances up. “That  _ wouldn’t  _ have been an issue if  _ someone-“  _

“Yeah, I already feel like complete shit over it so let’s stop reminding me of my abject failure, thanks,” Crowley snaps, gripping his hair in agitation. He grabs his bourbon and downs it. They order an appetizer to share, neither feeling very hungry, and grumble over their options. The drinks keep coming, but they find themselves nowhere near a solution. 

And Ezra is out tonight. Crowley can’t even fix  _ that  _ mess until tomorrow. He doubts Ezra will even want to see him, but in his ever increasingly-drunken state, he can’t help but wish, more than anything, that last night hadn’t happened. 

He sighs. “God, I miss him, Bea.” 

“It’s been a  _ day,”  _ Bea gripes. 

“But I  _ miss him.”  _

“Then  _ go  _ to him,” they say in a mocking tone. 

“He’s out,” Crowley grumbles, “Which is why I’m here with your bitch ass.” 

“Hey. This bitch ass is your best fucking friend so show some respect.” 

“You really are,” Crowley slurs, slinking down in his seat. “You’ve always been there, Bea.” 

“Oh, don’t start,” they snap, “This is why I never get drunk with you. You’re a fucking sap when you’re drunk.” 

“Who’s the real sap?” Crowley counters, “You’re the one who left Morningstar with me and practically dismantled the whole company into a leaderless mess.” 

Suddenly, they look at each other, and it’s like a burst of inspiration between them. 

“Oh, shit-“ Bea exclaims just as Crowley gasps: 

“Oh,  _ fuck!  _ Bea!”

“We’re idiots!” 

“The dumbest!” Crowley agrees loudly. 

In tandem, they throw down some notes to pay for their meal, then scramble out of the restaurant, back to Bea’s flat to begin working. 

}-{ 

The next morning, going through the motions as if in a fog, Ezra dresses for work. He’d half hoped, like some sort of lovesick fool, that Crowley might be waiting for him outside the theatre after his show last night. Or perhaps outside his doorstep when he arrived back at the bookshop. Or even inside, on the couch he knows Crowley thinks is hideous, waiting to talk to him. 

He’d come home to an empty building. He’d gone to bed with no messages from Crowley. He’d awoken to the same silence. He knows he could reach out. Probably  _ should _ reach out. But he doesn’t want to intrude on Crowley’s space any further. Wants Crowley to  _ decide  _ to come to him. He doesn’t want to force the issue, to force Crowley’s hand. He’ll wait, if he needs to. For as long as he needs to.

He ties his bow tie- red striped tartan today, which he only chose because the red reminds him of Crowley’s hair. It’s a cruel reminder, but he needs what little bit he can get to get him through the day. He fixes his hair, puts on his shoes, and moves to the kitchen to make some tea and scrambled eggs before heading to work. He sits down to eat, but finds he hardly has an appetite. He replays the fight in his mind once more, wishing he could have handled it better, but also knowing that he isn’t fully at fault. Sighing, Ezra takes a bite of eggs, but they feel like rubber and taste like ash. He forces himself to chew, to swallow the bite, then pushes the plate away and instead takes a sip of tea, which is only  _ just  _ a little more palatable. 

As he is contemplating tossing his tea down the sink and heading into work early with the intent of burying himself in writing, he hears a sound from the downstairs bookshop. Having lived in this building for the past nineteen years, Ezra is intimately familiar with all of the little noises and creeks that occur in the building. He knows the sound of windows creaking from a storm. The sound of rain on the roof. The whisper of air in the vents and the rumbling of old pipes if he runs his shower for too long. He knows the groaning of stone and the settling of wood. What he hears now, is the distinct sound of someone walking through the bookshop. The floorboards creek under each frantic step, and Ezra feels his heart lurch in his chest. There is no one else who could possibly be in the bookshop but- 

_ “Crowley!“ _

With an eagerness he hasn’t felt since he walked out of Crowleys flat two days ago, Ezra flies out of his seat, and rushes to the door that leads downstairs. Flinging it open, he only makes it about three steps before he very nearly crashes into Crowley, who grabs the stair rail to keep his balance, and they find themselves staring at each other, wide-eyed and full of undisguised longing and regret. 

“Angel,” Crowley says as he backs up a step, giving them space. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words little more than a broken sob that escapes him as he looks up at Ezra.

Ezra has to take a moment to wrap his mind around what’s happening. He registers the apology, and has already forgiven Crowley. He just needs to say it aloud. But before he can, he takes a look at the man before him and is heartbroken by what he sees. Crowley looks  _ terrible. _ Bloodshot eyes, hair thrown hastily up into a messy bun that is far more tangled than the usual elegantly disheveled look he sports. He’s wearing the clothes he wore the day Ezra stormed out of his flat, and though he won’t be rude and comment upon it, he can smell the alcohol on Crowley’s breath. The poor dear is either drunk, or hung over. Either way, the thought that Ezra drove Crowley to this state makes him feel all the more miserable for what occurred between them.

“You best come upstairs,” Ezra says simply, trying to remain calm as he reaches out his hand for Crowley to take. There’s a small bit of satisfaction when Crowley takes it without hesitation. Perhaps things aren’t quite so lost as he feared.

Ezra moves to take a step backwards up the steps, but Crowley squeezes his hand causing him to stop. “I know you have to go to work,” Crowley says urgently, “And I don’t want to disrupt your day. I just need ten minutes. I won’t be able to say everything I want to say in that amount of time, but I can at least apologize to you; tell you I am a fucking idiot and that I am so sorry- I really am, so please just-“ He pauses and then chuckles a little nervously, “I mean. I guess I just said it all. But I’d like to do it better. Just ten minutes. Please.” 

Ezra nods, afraid that his words will fail him if he tries to speak. He leads Crowley up the stairs, and then to the center of the kitchen. Wordlessly, he releases Crowley’s hand and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Finally he looks at Crowley and wills himself to speak. “Why don’t you go freshen up while I call in,” he says simply.

Crowley blinks. “No, I don’t want to interrupt your day. You’ve got important stuff to do I just-“

He quiets when Ezra holds up a hand. “I would appreciate it if you respect my wishes in this matter,” he says simply. “I don’t want this to be a ten minute conversation. I want us to  _ talk.  _ Go wash your face and brush your teeth and let me make this phone call. Then we will talk.” 

Knowing better than to argue, Crowley nods once. Reaching out, he takes Ezra’s hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles. A fleeting smile flickers across Ezra’s lips and somehow it’s enough to alleviate both of their fears for the moment. Letting go, Crowley goes to the bathroom while Ezra calls his work. He takes his time, letting the water warm up before he begins to scrub his face. He uses a finger and some toothpaste to try to freshen up his breath, and then borrows Ezra’s deodorant and his hairbrush to tame the mess that is his hair. When he’s finished, he takes a small pump of the rosewater moisturizer, rubs it between his fingers, and then gently massage it into his cheeks. The smell is oddly comforting, and he breathes deeply, remembering the first night he was here and all the nights since. He hopes this isn’t the last time he gets to stand in this bathroom. He hopes that Ezra can forgive him.

By the time he leaves the bathroom, Ezra has finished his phone call and is sitting in the living room on the ugly tartan couch that Crowley has grown to love so dearly in the last month. Uncertain of how welcome he is, Crowley takes the seat he took the first night he came here- leaving a cushion in between them. He looks at the space- a space that feels miles wide instead of just a few inches, clears his throat, and then begins.

“I don’t know what happened,” he begins softly, “But I’m sorry. Things I didn’t even realize I was feeling just came out and it wasn’t fair to you- or even to me to just.. dump all that out. And I’m sorry for how I handled things. You just want to help, and I shouldn’t have been so suspicious of your motivations.” 

He pauses there, afraid that if he continues he’ll just ramble on and on and make little sense. So he stops, and waits to see if Ezra wants to say anything. 

“I appreciate the apology,” Ezra remarks softly, “And I forgive you.”

A choked sob leaves Crowley at that, and he covers his eyes with one hand to try and compose himself. Ezra waits for him. When Crowley looks up, Ezra continues. “But I do think we need to have a long discussion about your reaction. And the clear trust issues you have regarding me having some sort of metaphorical hold over you. Because that is not something that can abide if we intend to continue our relationship.” He pauses and then asks, because he  _ needs  _ to know, “Do you  _ want  _ to continue-“ 

“Fuck yes,” Crowley blurts out, sliding across the couch to take Ezra’s hand in his. “I want you, Ezra,” he says, “More than anything. I want this.” He presses their joined hands to his chest, where his heart is pirouetting in his chest. 

“I do as well,” Ezra breathes, resting his free hand on Crowley’s leg. “And I will also apologize for my own part in making you so uncomfortable-“ 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Crowley shakes his head, “I panicked.” 

“Even still,” Ezra says, “I am sorry for how my offer made you feel. If it helps, I will rescind it. If you prefer it, I will stay out of your plans completely. But I don’t want you to know that I  _ am _ willing to help, if I can. With no expectations for compensation. Ever.”

“I know,” Crowley breathes, “I know…” 

“And I want you to know that I would never hold such an investment over you. I-“ he pauses and sighs, “I don’t think anything has ever hurt me as much as that insinuation.” 

“I’m so sorry, angel,” Crowley laments. Ezra smiles softly. 

“I’m not telling you because you owe me another apology,” he chides him gently, “I don’t want to make you feel worse. But I do think we need to be transparent. It hurt. It made me feel as if I were no different to you than Michael.”

Crowley sniffles. “I  _ know  _ you’re not the same,” Crowley agrees, “But I think that’s why I reacted that way. I was afraid… I  _ am  _ afraid… that there’s this imbalance and what if you decide to use that against me someday? That it’s because of you I’m where I am, professionally. That I  _ owe  _ you for it.” 

“So you panicked.” 

Crowley shrugs. “I panicked,” Crowley repeats. 

“My darling,” Ezra says, moving so that both their hands are clasped together, “Let me assure you, in no uncertain terms, that Michael and I are  _ very  _ different people. She only saw your value as a dancer and was threatened by it. I will love you no matter what you choose to do.” 

Crowley gasps. “You-“ 

“It might be too soon,” Ezra acknowledges, “It’s probably unwise to say, at least now. But I feel it is imperative to tell you how emphatically I am in love with you, if it will give you the assurance you need to trust that I will support you no matter what and that I would never hold a financial contribution over you, should you accept it.” 

“I love you too,” Crowley whispers, leaning forward to let his forehead rest against Ezra’s, “I don’t deserve you, but-“ 

He’s interrupted by a soft kiss to his lips. 

“None of that,” Ezra fusses, “It has nothing to do with what you deserve. You seem to think you deserve nothing.  _ I  _ think you deserve the world.  _ Deserve  _ is rather subjective.”

“Okay,” Crowley agrees, moving closer to kiss Ezra again. He leans back and asks, “Are we okay?” 

Ezra considers. “We should talk more,” he states, “But yes, my love, we are okay. We will be okay.” They kiss again, and Crowley clings to Ezra as tightly as he can, grateful that he hasn’t lost this. That Ezra still wants him. 

It takes him a moment to realize that Ezra is clinging to him as well. 

They rearrange to make themselves more comfortable, and then they talk. Crowley talks about his fears related to starting a new company at his age and with his injury. About how he greatly appreciates the offer Ezra made, and that deep down he knows that it’s not some trap meant to trip him up. Ezra shares more of himself; acknowledges the privilege of having so much money to carelessly hand to someone, and admits perhaps it was insensitive to simply think he could buy away Crowley’s troubles. 

“Not insensitive,” Crowley argues, “You did nothing wrong. It’s… just a  _ lot _ to accept. That you’d be willing to make such a huge investment in me.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be  _ just  _ you,” Ezra says, “But even if it were, you are worth it,” Ezra kisses Crowley’s temple, “But I also want to acknowledge and appreciate your desire to accomplish this on your own. If all you desire from me is emotional support, then I will happily give it. If you decide you want financial assistance, please never feel as if I would look down upon you. I  _ want  _ you to dance. I want you to  _ thrive.”  _

“Thank you,” Crowley whispers, “For everything.” He pauses, then lets out a soft, sad laugh, “Fuck, I was so miserable without you. The past two days have  _ sucked.”  _

“I was so worried about you,” Ezra remarks from where his cheek is resting on Crowley’s shoulder, “And when you showed up today looking, no offense, quite worse for wear and reeking of alcohol-“ 

That reminds Crowley of his  _ other _ reason for coming here, and he jerks back, gripping Ezra’s shoulders and staring at him with wide and wild eyes. Ezra pauses, confused. 

“Shit! That’s the other thing!” Crowley says excitedly, and he jumps up from the couch, pacing, if only because it feels so good to be able to do it for the hell of it. “Now that we’re good-“ he pauses to wait for Ezra to confirm. He nods, and Crowley smiles, then continues, “Bea and I looked at locations yesterday. And they’re stupidly expensive- and we were convinced our plan was gonna fail- but Ezra! We’re idiots!” 

Ezra blinks. “How, exactly, are we idiots?” 

“We don’t have to  _ start  _ a company!” He exclaims, “Michael was fired! There’s no director! And the board is looking to replace her. Bea and I stayed up all night working out a plan, and we called a few of the board members and talked to them, and they support our idea!”

“What’s the idea?” Ezra asks, intrigued. 

“ _ We  _ take over Morningstar!” Crowley exclaims, “Bea and I. We’d be the- the  _ owners  _ of the company! We’d rebrand, of course, to get away from Michael’s stink. But we’re going to ask Dagon to be the artistic director. Bea and I will dance and be the face of the company since we’re the most well-known. And  _ you _ -“ he says, moving to kneel in front of Ezra and taking his hands again, “Are going to be offered the position of managing director.” 

_ “What?”  _ Ezra gasps, staring at Crowley in shock. 

“I-“ he hesitates a little, then continues, nervous, “I drunkenly told Bea about how you wanted to dance. Probably shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry I said anything but I  _ was _ drunk and missing you and wasn’t thinking. I mentioned you were pretty savvy with business- you mentioned the investment and you majored in business. Neither of us know how to run a company. We can choreograph and perform like no one’s business, but… I don’t know  _ shit  _ about the practical stuff. But  _ you  _ could do that. And yeah, there might be some questions about our relationship but we can just be upfront about it and tell the board-“ 

“Crowley.” 

He stops, realizing that he’s rambling. “Sorry.” 

“You want me to be the director of your ballet company?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, “You could be a part of the ballet world again. Maybe not on stage, but you’d be a part of it. And… we talked to a few board members about the idea. They’ll support it, if you agree.” He pauses and clears his throat, “I wouldn’t have said anything to you if I thought it wasn’t plausible. But… you’re respected, Ezra. You know that. People trust you. They know you would have the best interest of Morningstar at heart. Or whatever we change the name to. And I know it’s a lot to ask and you probably have a lot of questions and need to think-“ 

For the second time that day, Crowley is cut off by a kiss. He melts into it instantly, grateful that this is still something he can have. 

“I certainly have questions,” Ezra remarks, “But if you want me, my love, how could I possibly say no?” 

Crowley lights up. “You’ll do it?” 

Tilting his head a little, Ezra amends, “Possibly. I want to talk to the board, and with Dagon and Bea. Morningstar  _ is _ in the midst of a scandal, and if we want to rise up out of the ashes and be successful, we need to be smart. But if we can come up with a solid plan, then  _ yes,  _ my love. I would be honored to be a part of this with you.” 

Grinning, Crowley rises up on his knees and wraps his arms around Ezra in a tight hug. He feels strong arms wrap around him in turn and sighs. Ezra loves him. Forgives him. They’re okay. He and Bea have a solid plan that is supported by the board of the soon-to-be-renamed-Morningstar. Ezra may even join him on this venture. 

_ It’s amazing,  _ Crowley thinks. He has a future- both on stage, and off. It’s hard won, but it’s his. 

_ No,  _ he amends, as he squeezes Ezra tighter, recalling the years of reviews Ezra had written about him- how he’d always believed in him (which makes Crowley feel even more stupid form doubting him, but all is forgiven, so he lets it go). Of how hard Dagon worked to help him adjust  _ Lust  _ into something manageable, and how he’d blown everyone away with the performance. Of Bea, who quietly advocated for him, protected him, walked away with him. Of how good it feels to be in Ezra’s arms, with the assurance that no matter what he may think of himself, Ezra  _ wants  _ him here. Loves him. 

_ It's not just mine. It’s ours.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Crowley act totally irrationally and blow things way out of proportion? Yes. But the poor thing has struggled with self-worth for years, and now suddenly the person he’s been dating for a *month* is just casually offering to drop over half a million dollars into his lap? I’d freak out a bit too. Crowley’s fear of them being imbalanced is understandable, but so is Ezra’s desire to want to help in the only other way he really can.  
> —  
> So in a comical bit of “art imitating life”, when I wrote the first draft of this chapter, Crowley ended up agreeing to take the money and came to terms with everything. And it felt... so unsatisfying. Not that I didn’t want him to find that acceptance and feel secure in trusting Ezra, but I just, I dunno, wanted to find a middle ground that would satisfy them both wothout Crowley having to accept the money (even though there would be nothing wrong with accepting it. Just, narratively, it wasn’t the resolution I wanted.) But I didn’t know what else to do. So Crowley just took the money. 
> 
> But THEN! During the like third or fourth edit, I reread the part about Michael being fired and suddenly looked up and said, “Cardinal, you IDIOT!” and realized that if Michael is gone, that leaves a space open for her replacement. And if Crowley and Bea want a company- there’s one LITERALLY. RIGHT. THERE! 
> 
> It feels much more satisfying for me to have Crowley (and Bea) figure out the solution to their problem, and for Crowley to be the one to offer Ezra something this time around: a job *in* the ballet world, rather than one where he is forced to watch from the sidelines. 
> 
> My favorite thing in the book/show is how Crowley and Aziraphale compliment and complete each other. They see it as “canceling each other out” but I love the notion that they balance each other. Both still capable on their own, but able to help each other and not have the scales tip too far to one side. Thankfully I found a way to reflect that here. Ezra saves Crowley in the beginning, and now Crowley gets to give Ezra something- not because he has to, but because he sees Ezra’s brilliance, and *wants* to. 
> 
> I love these two so much...  
> —  
> Part VIII: The epilogue. We get a glimpse of what becomes of the company-formerly-known-as-Morningstar, and those who are connected to it.


	8. Part VIII (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting. As always, it’s a delight to know you are enjoying this story. I’m sorry to see it end, but it was a blast to write, and even more of a thrill to share it with all of you. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

**Part VIII: Epilogue**

_  
Two Years Later_

**Eden Dance Company Promises - and Delivers - a Stunning, Modern Interpretation of Classic Tale**

_By: Ezra Fell (Guest Writer)_

_In the two years since Morningstar Ballet Company experienced a major upheaval with the sudden resignation of Anthony Crowley and Beatrice Zelbub amidst allegations of abuse by former director Michael St. Claire, many who are privy to the world of dance have wondered; what’s next? Morningstar offered a modern twist to the oftentimes deemed ‘cold’ and ‘old-fashioned’ world of ballet, and I myself have enjoyed many of their groundbreaking performances over the years. What, then, will become of their absence in the world of dance?_

_Enter Eden._

_Eden Dance Company- which blossomed from the remnants of a shattered Morningstar- boasts a profound roster of talent, many of whom stayed with the company as Crowley and Zelbub transitioned it from a leaderless void into the newly cultivated Eden. Taking ownership of the company, Crowley and Zelbub promoted Dagon Fisher to artistic director, and graciously offered the position of managing director to me- a position I was honored to accept._

_Since the official announcement a year and a half ago, Eden has long promised to provide London with spectacular and innovative recreations of some of ballet’s most beloved works, and they have most certainly kept that promise in the form of ‘Sacred & Profane’. _

_It may seem self-serving to have the managing director write a review for his own company, but I pray you will indulge me one last time. It only seems fitting that I return for one last review, and that it be one of such professional and personal importance to me:_

_‘Sacred & Profane’ is a modern twist on the classic, beloved tale of ‘Romeo and Juliet’. In ‘Sacred’, Zelbub plays the son of a priest- young Azirafel, while Crowley stars opposite, playing a young soldier of little faith, Antonio. Our star-crossed lovers meet under a moonlit night during a banquet meant to celebrate the soldiers' return from war. It’s love at first sight, and the pas de deux shared between Zelbub and Crowley is one of the most touching and heartfelt I have ever had the privilege to witness in all my years. _

_Here, the two stars show off their prowess as dancers, taking turns in performing the traditional feminine role of the pas de deux, which showcases Zelbub’s ferocity and strength, but also allows for a vulnerability and innocence that we’ve yet to witness from them. Crowley plays the role of the soldier with mesmerizing precision, while also letting moments of sensuality- last seen in great prominence during his performance of Fisher’s ‘Sins’- shine through._

_While the story is a retelling of the classic tale for a modern audience, that doesn’t mean that one will know what to expect. The passion, humor, and impending tragedy are all balanced beautifully throughout, and while I will not give away the ending, I must say that with all certainty that the final performance is something one must truly see to believe._

_I_ _speak with confidence when I say this is what can be expected from Eden. I have watched these dancers pour their hearts and souls into turning this company into something magical, and I urge you all to give this production, and Eden, a chance. I would not have signed on as managing director if I did not have faith that Eden would be anything short of phenomenal._

_I would like to thank the London Observer for indulging me one last time, and would like to conclude my profession as a critic with this recommendation:_

_Without bias, I highly recommend ‘Sacred & Profane’ to anyone who loves ballet, and even more so to those who do not, so that you might be surprised by how truly imaginative and compelling the art form can be. _

_Thank you to all my readers who have trusted my recommendations over the years. Your confidence in my opinions has always meant a great deal._

_But before I relinquish this column for the last time, I would like to end on a personal note:_

_Anthony J. Crowley, I am so incredibly proud of you. You, Bea, Dagon, and the others, have worked so hard the past two years, and I want you to know that all your dedication, all the stress, all the sleepless nights, all the tears and second-guessing: all of it has paid off. You and I have overcome many obstacles- both personal and professional, the last two years- and we now stand on the other side of a hard won battle, and I can look back and- without question- tell you it has all been worth it._

You _are worth it._

_You have helped create something truly remarkable, my dear, and I am so honored that you want me to be a part of this journey with you._

_And remember, my love, that no matter what comes next: of all the stars in the sky, to me you will always shine the brightest._

_I cannot wait to marry you next month._

_Your biggest fan,_

_Ezra_

—

“This should be considered gross indecency, Fell.” 

Ezra has the audacity to look offended. Beside him, Crowley is trying- and failing- not to laugh. 

“I complimented you _both,”_ he stresses indignantly. 

Bea shoots a look at Crowley who ooks entirely too pleased at their reaction. 

“Yeah, you said I danced real nice,” they say, “You wrote _him_ another fucking love letter. _Literally._ What kind of weird, kinky PDA shit are you two into?” 

“Am I not allowed to compliment my fiancé?” Ezra asks, taking a sip of tea, then dabbing his mouth with a napkin, the ring on his finger glimmering in the light shining through the cafe window. 

“Ugh,” they groan, then look at Crowley with a scowl. “And stop laughing, you dick.” Crowley’s only response is to laugh harder. Seeing they’re on their own in their outrage, Bea sighs and mutters most begrudgingly, “Fine. _Thank you, Fell.”_ But their eyes are sparkling, and Ezra, who has spent the past two years getting to know Beatrice Zelbub rather well, understands that this is as sincere as they’ll probably ever get. 

“You are most welcome, my dear,” Ezra says, wiggling in satisfaction. 

“Ugh,” Bea groans, swallowing down the rest of their drink and giving Crowley a pointed look. “Come on, star boy. We got rehearsal. You keep missing your cue in that final sequence of our _pas de deux_ and it’s throwing me off.” 

“I’m not missing anything- _you_ are _early,”_ Crowley grouses, standing up and shouldering his duffle bag. Rolling his eyes, he turns and holds out his hand for Ezra. “Coming?” 

“Of course I am, my love,” Ezra says as he stands, taking Crowley’s hand and reaching up with the other to card his fingers through Crowley’s hair. They share a kiss, then Ezra whispers, breath hot against Crowley’s ear, “And when we get home tonight, so are you. Several times.” 

He releases Crowley, smiles sweetly at him as if he hadn’t just completely ruined Crowley’s concentration for the entire day, and heads toward the door. “Hurry up, dear. I have a meeting in twenty minutes I don’t want to be late for.” 

Crowley trembles in delight as he rushes after Ezra and Bea. His stomach twists and his heart picks up speed, just the way it does before a show. He’s used to feeling this way in the wings of the theatre, and now he’s used to feeling this sort of exhilaration every time he looks at the man he’s going to marry. It’s comforting. It’s familiar. He loves it.   
  


_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you all. ❤️


End file.
